


The Chisel

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: Pillars and Pinnacles [2]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 159,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of The Mountain. </p><p>High school rolls around, and tennis isn't the number one priority for some anymore. Teams have been split up, boys have gone their separate ways--in some cases, to completely different countries. </p><p>With Yukimura and Tezuka determinedly leaping into the professional circuit, many middle school teams playing mix-and-match (congratulations, Shitenhouji!), and Rikkai generally being a jumble of hormones and confusion, there's a lot going on that isn't tennis. Of course, it always comes back to that in the end. </p><p>Some implied pairings are not listed in the tags, others have yet to be introduced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuji & Mizuki, Atobe & Tezuka

High school is supposed to be a new start. 

 

Fuji does like the sound of that. A school focused on international studies in Kyoto is quite a change of pace, admittedly, and four hours by train from home might not appeal to _many_ new high school students, but…

 

His father _does_ seem fairly thrilled about the idea, and Fuji supposes humoring his father's requests isn't a bad thing.

 

It all works out, anyway. A little distance from Yuuta can't hurt, Taka-san needs to focus on what he really loves for a change, Tezuka has already left to go overseas…

 

To make things even more seamless, all of his things should have already shipped in. How pleasant. There's a box full of all of his Tezuka photos--well, most of them. He has the best ones here, along with magazine clippings now (Tezuka looks happier, _healthier_ than he ever has), but a few linger behind in his bedroom at home, just in case.

 

Room 314--Yumiko didn't have anything particularly interesting to divine from that number, but that doesn't mean much. Fuji tugs his one bag up over his shoulder a bit higher before turning the knob to find the door already unlocked. He shrugs to himself, and tucks his bangs behind one ear, much longer after his hair remained uncut as per his agent's suggestion. Time for the roommate reveal early on, he supposes. 

 

The sight on one of the beds, however, makes him stare, and Fuji feels a muscle in his jaw twitch. 

 

"What are _you_ doing here?" 

 

One finger twists in wavy dark hair, in time with each rhythmic little laugh. “Well, well, well, Shuusuke-kun. It’s time you finally arrived.”

 

Mizuki stretches out on his bed--he’s been holding the same dramatic position for quite some time now, and it is starting to get obnoxious, but it had been worth it for the effect on dear Fuji. The room is already decorated, at least his own side, with all of the ‘finer things’ that he was able to rustle up, elegantly arranged according to balance out the energies of the room. At least, that was what it had said on the delightfully informative Google page.

 

Fuji feels more than just that muscle twitch. His head ticks briefly to the side and he slowly reaches for the door again, taking a step back and drawing it closed when he walks back out again. 

 

Fuji feels more than just that muscle twitch. His head ticks briefly to the side and he slowly reaches for the door again, taking a step back and drawing it closed when he walks back out again. 

 

“Oi!” _Damn_ that Fuji Shuusuke! Mizuki grabs his phone, furiously texting as he sprawls out into an annoyed lump.

 

**To: Yuuta**

**Subject: He’s here**

**(** **╬** **Ò ‸ Ó) worse than before**

 

**To: Mizuki-san**

**Subject: Re: He’s here**

**Wat did u expect did he tear up ur pasly**

 

Mizuki stares at the phone for a long moment. Pasly? What on earth could he possibly mean?

 

Fuji breathes long and deep outside of the door, _trying_ not to think of death, destruction, and all other things related to it.

 

It's hard. Very hard.

 

 _How difficult would a transfer be, I wonder_ he desperately thinks, raking a hand back through his hair. To another room, of course, not another school, not _yet_ , though that might come in the future. He'd go back to Seigaku in a heartbeat, and it would be easy. It's one thing to peripherally deal with Mizuki, it's another thing to _live_ with him. 

 

It occurs to him that his Tezuka box is in the room still, and it's frightening to think of it alone with Mizuki. Transfer forms can wait until later with that in mind. He turns around, stiffly opens the door, and _calmly_ walks back inside. "You seem to have prior knowledge to all of this," he flatly tosses over his shoulder, not even offering the other boy a single glance as he tosses his bag onto his bed and starts hunting down the box in question. 

 

Mizuki tosses aside the question of ‘pasly’ for the time being, arranging himself once more on the bed. “I,” he informs his roommate casually, “didn’t ignore every email from the Deans about our new housing situation, nore did I neglect to investigate the school’s forums. Really, you could have saved yourself a world of trouble with a little research, Shuusuke-kun.” Heh. Yeah, good. That’ll teach him.

 

"That's nice." He _did_ throw away and delete just about everything, didn't he. Whoops. Ah, yes, there it is. Fuji flops himself down onto the floor, carefully, delicately opening the edges of the box in question. "You don't need to get comfortable. I'll make sure this arrangement doesn't last." 

 

“But I am already _terribly_ comfortable with this arrangement.” Mizuki leafs through his notebook, idly jotting down a few reactions, a couple new factors. “If you’re displeased, feel free to beg to be moved. Ah, the Dean _did_ say something about how to do it in one of those emails. I’m sure you kept them all, right?”

 

Fuji's head snaps up suddenly, his eyes narrowed to slits as they focus on Mizuki for the first time since he's shown up. "If you keep pissing me off, the one who is going to be begging is you. So be _nice_ , shut up, and get rid of some of those tacky prints while you're at it." Box opened, a nicely organized stack of pictures procured, and Fuji's fingers tenderly trace the line of one very blurry spine. 

 

Mizuki’s smile vanishes, replaced by something far more heated and ugly. “I thought you _knew_ ,” he snarls. “I thought you were being _mature_ about this whole thing, but if you just want to be a bitch about it, _fine_ , we’ll see who comes out on top!”

 

"Me. It's literally always me."

 

Mizuki throws his notebook at Fuji’s head. It’s empty except for some scribbles anyway, and will do him more good being launched satisfyingly at the asshole’s head. “That’s not what your brother seems to think.”

 

Fuji leans forward, successfully dodging without even glancing up from his Tezuka box. "You're not much of a data specialist if you're relying on Yuuta's opinions, now are you?" 

 

“It’s not an opinion! It’s empirical evidence!” Mizuki huffs, folding his arms. “What’s with the box, anyway? Is that the pictures Yuuta says you masturbate to all the time?”

 

"Don't be crass. I don't masturbate to these." No, that's a _different_ set of photos. Fuji sighs, glancing up, and looking about his side of the room for a good location. Yes, that one will do. Right there, next to his bed, so he can roll over and wake up to such beautiful things. "Did you hear that Tezuka went pro?" he wistfully says out of left field, hauling himself to his feet, box in tow. "Months ago, of course, but some people _still_ aren't keeping up with his career and I do find that sad."

 

Mizuki waves a hand, annoyed. “Is being your roommate going to entail listening to every one of Tezuka Kunimitsu’s statistics being recited in your trancelike tone?” There are _worse_ traits for his roommate to have, he supposes. Like wearing department store perfume.

 

"Mm, no. Because you aren't going to be my roommate.You would be wise to start packing now, I think." Yes, good, that is a perfect location. Fuji methodically starts sorting out his photographs on the bed.

 

“I’m not moving! You want a new roommate so bad, _you_ move out!” Mizuki twirls a strand of hair angrily around one finger. “I just got the room the way I like it, and I do _not_ relish having to move all that furniture again.” Being sweaty is _awful_.

 

Fuji briefly glances over his shoulder at Mizuki's half of the room, eyebrows raised. "You made it look that way on _purpose?"_

 

“There’s an _aesthetic_ at play. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the finer points of interior design.” Mizuki stands, rearranging his desk slightly, pausing to bring out a silver polishing cloth and start attending to his tableware collection.

 

"You just keep thinking that," Fuji crossly mutters, currently too distracted by his photos to bother nitpicking Mizuki _too_ much. Ah, well. He can tolerate this for a few hours. It isn't as if this is going to be permanent. 

 

“It’s Wednesday,” Mizuki says idly, as if this is imparting great wisdom. “I believe Wednesday should be Opera Day, but feel free to move it to Tuesday if that fits better with your schedule. We can always reschedule Antiques Day.”

 

"I have no idea why you are still attempting to talk to me." 

 

Mizuki twitches, then flips on a CD player, relaxing as soon as the soothing strains of Bizet fill the air. Yes, this will do quite nicely.

 

And if he’s currently picturing himself as Jose and Mizuki as Carmen, well, it’s only the last scene he’s imagining.

 

As it turns out, wanting to kill Mizuk has _levels_. Fuji is fairly certain he has reached a new pinnacle. Murder no Kiwami? Sure, sure. 

 

It gets worse when his first three requests to change rooms are denied. 

 

 _I have you so beautifully displayed, but I will take you down if it means I can leave this place_ , he sadly informs his Tezuka wall, fingers gripping his phone tightly as he struggles not to call his father and whine about the situation. Not yet. 

 

Not yet, it's only been a few days. 

 

Not _yet_. 

 

~

 

Atobe is not a weak man. He prides himself on his athleticism, his stamina, and his gorgeous body.

 

Tennis has _nothing_ on lugging giant boxes of books up several flights of stairs over and over all day.

 

“Tell me this is the last load.” It takes him too long to catch his breath, when the tiny apartment (it’s no bigger than a shoebox, _really_ ) is only half-covered in the sprawling boxes, half in bookshelves, with one small bed that seems more like a cot than anything. “How do you expect to read all of these? You only have _one window_ , Kunimitsu!” It’s not even an especially nice window.

 

"I don't need more than one window to read," Tezuka points out, his own breath a little ragged around the edges as he tosses the last box onto the bed itself. Perhaps it hadn't been the _best_ decision in the world to bring his entire collection with him, but it isn't as if his mother had wanted it all sitting around the house and collecting dust. 

 

"I think," he says, wobbling as he flops back onto the edge of the mattress, "that that's it. I wonder which one of these is all of my tennis things…" It's hard to tell. He's not the _best_ when it comes to packing and moving to the other side of the world, but he's still rather fond of the concept.

 

Atobe shakes his head, leaning back against one of the more sturdy-looking bookshelves. Of course, Tezuka has built them all himself, so they’re all sturdy, he thinks with a smattering of pride. “Kunimitsu, you’re far too introverted for your own good. Haven’t I told you you’ll never secure your sponsors if you’re spending all of your time holed up in here? You’re in a new _country_ , let’s explore, let me introduce you to everyone I hate and feed you things that will make you throw up.”

 

Tezuka immediately fixes a stare upon him. "I'll secure my sponsors by playing tennis well. I already have one, and that was easy, anyway." Drink some German beer, make some sausages--yes, that had been extraordinarily easy. Admittedly, one sponsor isn't enough to make it into a named tournament unseeded, but…well, it's a start. 

 

Atobe starts to protest, then throws up his hands. “You’ll do as you please, of course. You always do.” If it works, he won’t be the one who said it wouldn’t. If it doesn’t, it isn’t as if Tezuka doesn’t have him. “It _would_ be easy for you to make it into the Aegon International if you had another sponsor. You know my father—”

 

"Pass." Just because Atobe's father _seems_ to like him on some level doesn't mean that Tezuka feels the need to ask him for money. God, does he hate asking for money. He sighs, eyebrows raising. "What would you have me do? Go to a party and socialize? How well do you _honestly_ think that would go over, Keigo?" 

 

“If you actually _tried_ ….” Atobe trails off, attempting to imagine Tezuka trying, being social, talking to sponsors at the kinds of parties _he_ frequents, and it gives him a headache. “You’re probably right. When do you get your lovely uniform with your sausage company plastered all over it, by the way? They’d better get you in good somewhere you can win.”

 

"I can win anywhere," Tezuka says, matter-of-factly, and is quite sure of that. " _That's_ not the problem. Also, this is me trying. Disdain for the general public doesn't go away overnight. I'm assuming the concept of a hikikomori doesn't extend over here." 

 

“Of course it does. It’s called being an introvert.” Atobe raises an eyebrow, perhaps comparing Tezuka to his mental picture of an actual hikkimori. “And it’s effectively frowned upon in all circles of life. Those who play athletics for a living especially.” God, Tezuka is cute.

 

"All hikikomori are introverts; not all introverts are hikikomori," Tezuka grouses, leaning back onto one hand and _trying_ not to fall prey to manifest destiny. Right. Socializing. Socializing is part of being a professional athlete--a professional _anything_. "Did you have a party in _mind?_ " he glumly asks. The idea of sitting around and organizing his books sounds better, but…

 

“There’s a gala on Friday,” Atobe says immediately, “and a debut ball on Thursday, as well as a gathering of the young and connected, well, nearly every night. The weekend starts on Thursday here, of course. Honestly, Kunimitsu, you know that no matter where I am, there’s a party.”

 

"You _are_ a party." It's not necessarily a compliment, but Tezuka surrenders with a weary shrug. "Fine, drag me somewhere. I'll trust you." 

 

Atobe grabs him by the narrow (though not _too_ narrow) shoulders, pulling him close and squeezing him. “You’re going to _hate_ it,” he says in delight. “We’re going. We’ll stop by Oxford on the way to dress you.”

 

"Must we?" Tezuka deadpans, letting himself be squeezed and pulled upon. He sets his head upon Atobe's shoulder, already fairly certain he hates everything. "How well do I have to behave, exactly."

 

Atobe rolls his eyes. “Talk to people. Here, if you want, I’ll pretend you speak little English. We can make this work,” he assures Tezuka. “I’ll just translate for you, and you can tell me the least offensive version of what you’d like to say.”

 

He's being difficult and he knows it, but…ugh. Parties. _People._ "I'll see if I can stand it before we get to that point," he wearily relents. Tezuka loops his arms loosely about Atobe's waist. "Just pinch me or something if I start getting…you know." He gives Atobe's ass a solid pinch for good measure, just because his hand is there. "Like that."

 

Atobe’s breath sucks in, the only outward indication of the way that makes him twitch--save for the way his eyes go dark, intent. “Oh, I’ll pinch you, all right.” He wavers for a second, then curses under his breath in German. “Let’s go,” he says with a sigh, and tugs Tezuka out the front door. “Before I decide to ravish you _before_ the party instead.”

 

That also sounds better than parties--but then again, most things do.

 

The thing is, it's not a matter of hating people, honestly. There are certain people that Tezuka likes just fine, and can be around with very little anxiety. 

 

Most Europeans are not those kinds of people.

 

London is probably going to be the bane of his existence, he bitterly decides, trying not to set his jaw in that way that Atobe says makes him look like he wants to kill everyone. Everyone is loud, and talkative, and very, _very_ touchy, and he does _not_ like being touched by most people out of the blue. 

 

Grabbing shoulders and laughing loudly and being _so close to him_ are all normal things here, apparently. 

 

"How drunk am I allowed to get?" Tezuka mutters underneath his breath, not really expecting an answer. Another observation: he, apparently, is still tall even outside of Japan (he did not see enough people in Germany to make a judgement call). That's surprising, and he sort of wants to cut his ankles off for five minutes.

 

“Not at your first party.” Atobe laughs, and to the woman who had asked the question, translates, “He says he hopes you’ve been healthy as well. These Japanese, you know they’re terribly health-conscious. Why, I don’t think Tezuka here has ever been ill a day in his life. And Lady Catherine, I didn’t think you’d be so eager to rejoin society so soon after your tumble last week, you have all of our delighted prayers for your smooth recovery.” 

 

He, unlike Tezuka, flits between conversations with ease, bowing over some hands, shaking others, guiding Tezuka through the miasma as the odd out-of-place foreigner, translating most phrases that start as ‘can we please leave’ and end as ‘yes I love playing tennis.’

 

Tezuka quickly realizes that he has a timed tolerance level. 

 

 _I am a bomb_ , he decides, and has to keep consciously making the decision not to go off at inopportune times. If he tries to look at this all positively, _most_ people aren't entirely dreadful. It's just…

 

"If I have my way, I will find myself in the Aegon International at the end of the month!"

 

 _Oh, no._  

 

That voice. Even with minimal contact in the past, even with it speaking English instead of Japanese, Tezuka knows that voice, and sort of wants to jump off of a cliff because of it. He half-expects Sanada Genichirou to show up around a corner as well, because when was the last time he saw Yukimura Seiichi not flanked by his veritable cult and token rhinoceros? 

 

Now, he's cheerfully and contently seated in a corner, chattering away with three (four? _ugh_ ) female reporters, all of which are giggling intermittently--"Yes, I really _did_ just turn 15!"--and Tezuka firmly refuses to ever _flirt_ his way onto the tournament circuit. "You," he says underneath his breath to Atobe, fiercely trying not to glare, "did not tell me he would be here."

 

Atobe holds up his hands, startled and amused all at once. “Believe me, I hadn’t the faintest clue. Good lord, if you don’t talk to him everyone will assume something strange is going on...ugh.” Dealing with Yukimura Seiichi is _never_ easy. He makes sure of that.

 

If they can’t do it quietly, they’ll do it loudly. Atobe throws on a brilliant smile, declaring, “I think I hear one of my countrymen breaking his tongue on harsh syllables. Yukimura, it’s been a long time.”

 

Three reporters just on one side of Atobe’s peripheral vision start scribbling. Cameras flash.

 

Tezuka rather does hate that Yukimura doesn't even look surprised. _Did your agent plan this? How do you already have an agent that's so well-informed? Or is it just a manager that keeps you up to date--okay, seriously, how?_

 

"Atobe! It's been so long!" Tezuka also hates that Yukimura looks so _normal_ here, beaming as he leaps up from where he's sitting to grasp one of Atobe's hands. There isn't a hair out of place on his head, and _he_ looks perfectly comfortable in all the latest fashions. Irritating. Infuriating. "I heard you might be here, but…" Yukimura's gaze flickers to him instead, and the smile remains. Tezuka can't even hate him for it and that's _so_ annoying. "Tezuka, too?"

 

"For better or for worse," Tezuka wearily mutters, really unable to bite his tongue.

 

“It’s like a reunion!” Atobe says merrily in English, giving Yukimura the hug that’s expected of teenagers who know each other from far away, and because he knows he’ll be vastly lucky to get Tezuka to shake hands. Ah, it _does_ feel weird to have that much bodily contact, even now that he’s back in England. “How long have you been over here? Did I hear something about the Aegon International?”

 

"Oh, I've been here a few weeks now."

 

_Great, you have a head start. Stop hugging my boyfriend, go back to your rhino._

 

"And I've been planning on the Aegon International as my first tournament over here for awhile now," Yukimura cheerfully says, switching back to Japanese seamlessly as he rocks back onto his heels, tucking a strand of his hair behind one ear. Tezuka glares at a reporter that sighs a little loudly, a little pathetically. _Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the long hair. Too bad, I'm not growing mine out. At least I don't dye it, you can't see_ my _roots._ "My first sponsor suggested it; I'm just here tonight to seal the deal." 

 

A reporter hovers close, recording everything on a portable phone. “Mr. Yukimura, a word? Are you and Mr. Atobe close?”

 

“We were rivals in middle school,” Atobe says, smoothly urging Tezuka closer. “Though it was _Tezuka_ here whose team beat Yukimura’s in the finals, wasn’t it?” _Please say something in English, I know you can._

 

The reporter swings over to Tezuka, expectant, camera rolling.

 

Tezuka knows when he's been thrown a bone, but… _don't fuck it up, Kunimitsu, don't fuck it up._ "Shockingly, it was still a challenge," he says dryly in English, thanking every god in this universe that his boyfriend is a native speaker and sarcasm is a natural thing in his own brain. "Even after Yukimura's hospital stay."

 

"Hospital?"

 

"Mr. Yukimura, would you care to elaborate?"

 

The look Yukimura shoots him is nothing short of icy, and Tezuka knows, if nothing else, that _he_ is very skilled at keeping a poker face--no matter that he's highly amused in spite of himself right now. Maybe Yukimura shouldn't have hugged his boyfriend back.

 

 _Kunimitsu, you asshole,_ Atobe thinks, delighted. “That ought to keep him busy for a while,” he murmurs in Japanese, and steers Tezuka in another direction. He purses his lips, caught between two groups of people. “Businessmen, or teenagers?” One, influential, difficult to approach. Two, easy to approach and friendly in general, but less clout.

 

Apparently, ruining someone else's evening doesn't mean that he gets a free pass out of here. "How bad are teenagers over here that you're obviously trying to prefer clones of your father over them?" Tezuka asks, deadpan. 

 

That settles it. “You’re about to find out.”

 

“Keigo, _darling_ , how dreadful is this party?” The girl’s voice is loud and flat, and she attaches herself to Atobe’s arm in short order, long false nails digging into the skin of it under his shirt. “You _must_ come with us to Muffy and Dewberry’s in the Lake Country this weekend, I wouldn’t _dream_ of going without you.”

 

Atobe gives her a shining smile. “Althea, my dear, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming, but she doesn’t actually want him to go, thank god. “I’ve got to introduce you--this is a friend of mine from Japan, he’s playing tennis over—”

 

“From Japan? That’s _fantastic_ , how on earth are you finding London?” Althea is all Tezuka’s problem in an instant, kissing him firmly on both cheeks before laughing merrily to herself. “Oh, does he expect me to bow instead? Rolfie, you must meet Keigo’s new Asian, you’ll just _die_.”

 

Oh, _god_. No wonder Atobe has been…frantic. 

 

Thankfully, Tezuka is sure that Atobe is the only one around that can tell that his expression cheerfully says _I am going to kill them all_ , especially when 'Rolfie' waltzes over, nothing of Althea's simpering attempts at friendliness, and all suspicion and scorn instead behind a suit that Tezuka guesses costs more than his family's cabin in Hokkaido. "Asian? From where, China?"

 

That was pathetic enough that it wasn't worth a strike on Tezuka's mental list, at least. "Japan," he corrects, unblinking. 

 

"Oh, right. Keigo's mum was all about that a few years ago--well, guess she still is, on paper," Rolfie says, sniggering. _That_ , however, qualifies as strike one. 

 

Atobe laughs with the rest of them. It’s expected of him. “I’m afraid Tezuka isn’t the very talkative type,” he explains, stepping slightly in front of Tezuka--businessmen were a better choice, if he’d known Rolfie was going to be here he’d _never_ have come over--and attempting to deflect the attention. Girls--the girls are usually harmlessly awful, at least as long as he doesn’t have sex with them. “Muffy, darling, didn’t you say your brother was making a go of the tennis circuit? Will we see him at Aegon?”

 

Muffy waves a hand, kicking a leg up onto the lap of someone just-rich-enough to attend, who fills her drink again immediately. “Keigo my love, you can’t ask questions so _bluntly_ , Christ, everyone will think you’re...well, not that they’d know the difference with you. Is your boy there coming to play with us at Aegon?”

 

At times, Tezuka is very sure that it would be easier to not be decently proficient at English. _Your boy_ \--well, isn't that just awful. 

 

"Oh, come on, Muffy, when's the last time we saw an Oriental on the circuit?" Rolfie sneers, obviously very convinced that 'not talkative' means 'unable to understand.' Not quite strike two; everyone in England assumes the latter, after all. "There's a reason why Keigo's not making a go of it, after all." 

 

Right. _That's_ strike two. 

 

Atobe isn’t entirely sure if anyone else can hear the faint ticking noise coming from between Tezuka’s ears. Unfortunately, his father’s instructions about not leaving a party on the wrong foot are stronger than his certainty that this is going to end badly, at least for the moment. “Ahn? And here I thought I just didn’t have the time after making full partner in the Directorate. Didn’t you come to the...ah, no, that’s right.” 

 

He leaves it hanging in the air. Saying it would be admitting weakness. Eyes shift quietly, turning to Rolfie, and Muffy isn’t shy about the eagerness on her face as she leans in. _Later_ , Atobe will explain to Tezuka all about the ins and outs, about Rolfie’s wastrel father and the celebratory party for Atobe’s promotion that Rolfie had missed to bail his brother out of prison, and how that _means something_ among these people.

 

“Dreadfully dangerous sport, tennis, I always thought,” a nasally voice interrupts. A lanky young man with hair hanging into his face leans back against the wall, already looking bored. “All that running about. Your people like hard work, don’t you?”

 

"About as much as everyone here likes casual racism." Whoops. 

 

Tezuka isn't sure if it's to Rolfie's credit or not that he bursts out laughing. "God, this one's _funny_ , Keigo! He'd have to be, I guess, to put up with you on a good day."

 

Nope, it's not to his credit. 

 

"Is he the only one you brought over on a boat? I mean, they've got to be running out of room."

 

 _That's China_ , Tezuka mentally corrects again.

 

“You’ll have to forgive him, he’s _desperately_ behind the times,” Muffy says, more than incidentally loud enough for everyone to hear her. “Still thinks your people should be grateful for all the money his grandfather sent after the Americans dropped the bombs on you.”

 

“No people with second heads over when you grew up, then?” the lanky teenager drawls. “Not that we’d know, I’ve heard how you like keeping things hush-hush.”

 

“Mr. Tezuka, you’ll have to forgive Dewberry, he’s _awfully_ rude tonight,” Althea puts in, nails digging into his arm. “He always gets like this during the House of Lords. Ah, is there a title I should be calling you?” She looks over at Atobe, eyes shining. “Keigo my darling, you’re simply _awful_ , you need to give us warning. Oh, teach us how to say something in Chinese!”

 

Atobe has a few ideas of what to teach her in mind, but Althea is basically harmless, at least compared to the rest of them. “There are no words I could teach that would do duty to your beauty, my love,” he says instead, and she titters excitedly. 

 

Dewberry yawns. “Father brought me pills. Anyone want to go on the roof?”

 

Tezuka wants to go back to talk to Yukimura, and that's saying something. He, at least, is a good person, and in a way, he almost wants to sic Yukimura on them and see what _he_ would have to say about atomic bombs and resulting radiation. _He_ , at least, could yell at them very proficiently in French.

 

"Don't be disgusting, Dewberry; the roof here is awful, they've ripped up the garden and everything," Rolfie sniffs. "Besides, we have an _athlete_ in our presence. God forbid if we do anything to ruin his chances at Aegon--ah, is Keigo's father your sponsor? More bad investments on his part I see, only the Chinese bet on their own kind." 

 

Strike three. Tezuka slowly glances to Atobe, eyebrows raised. _I'm going to hit him._  

 

Briefly, Atobe finds himself wishing that Rolfie were a tennis player. It would be so satisfying to challenge him to a match over this, but that would necessitate more time in close contact, and he _does_ want to avoid that at all costs. Vaguely, he misses Japan, where he could simply snarl that he’s an idiot, because his father heard about 2% of everything that went on there.

 

Here, of course….

 

Atobe’s hand digs into Tezuka’s arm--obvious, perhaps, but better than letting Tezuka simply haul off and punch a Lord’s son (even if he is un-landed gentry). “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says loftily, as close to his preferred insults as he can get. “Father doesn’t bet on sure things. There’s no element of risk to it.”

 

"That _does_ explain why he ended up marrying your mother--"

 

Well, Tezuka _did_ give the asshole three strikes. The fourth was just a bonus, and honestly, nailing Rolfie square in the jaw felt like hitting jello. When he hits the ground, it also sort of _sounds_ like jello. Disgusting.

 

"You--" His lip is split, and Tezuka's not as much proud of that as he is bored. "You _hit me!_ "

 

"Oh, good. You do still have basic observation skills," Tezuka mutters, shaking out his hand and turning away amidst stunned gasps and Rolfie's whimpering. "Are you ready to go now, Keigo?" 

 

Atobe is torn between wanting to jump into Tezuka’s arms for a proper bridal carry and being horrified and nervous about what his father is going to say. He throws back his head and laughs, raising an eyebrow and adding some comment about how at least _our people_ watch out for their own, before sweeping out the door with Tezuka beside him amid Muffy’s shrieking laughter.

 

Once the door closes, his hand on Tezuka’s arm tightens, and his stride lengthens. “Right,” he says, trying not to start crying from laughing so hard even as he veritably drags Tezuka away, “we’ve got to get out of here. Things will calm down eventually as long as you aren’t there.”

 

The driver is, of course, waiting, and Atobe stuffs Tezuka into the back seat before ordering, “The Kensington Mansion,” and promptly attaching his mouth to Tezuka’s.

 

Tezuka supposes this counts as a successful evening, in a way. 

 

"What," he begins between kisses, unable to stop himself from grabbing hold of Atobe's belt loops and dragging him closer, "is the likelihood I'm going to get arrested?" He's not entirely sure that his grandfather's influence extends over here, doesn't particularly care, and is also sure that he'd punch that little shithead again, given the chance. 

 

“You are _so_ bloody lucky today,” Atobe informs him, wriggling quite happily into Tezuka’s lap, running his hands up the taller boy’s back. “Rolfie’s not too pleased with the police at the moment, so he’ll probably just swear undying vengeance against your entire family and then never do anything about it.” After a particularly deep taste of Tezuka’s mouth, he adds, “And I’ll protect you if they do try, of course. Ah, Kunimitsu, my _hero_ —”

 

Yes, he will definitely consider this evening a success. A lap full of Atobe proves it, Tezuka is certain, especially when he can _properly_ grab handfuls of the other boy's ass and haul him more thoroughly into it. "Should I princess carry you into the mansion?" he dryly asks when he manages to pull back, licking at his own lips. "I _hate_ the way they talk about you. I didn't even hit him that hard; I should have." 

 

Atobe laughs, raking his hair back from his face, and leans down to let his lips ghost across Tezuka’s neck. “You’ve got to learn to ignore them,” he murmurs, hands stroking down Tezuka’s shoulders. “They’re always going to be like that, I don’t let it get to me. I have to go to _school_ with these people, you know.”

 

 _But you_ do _let it get to you._ Maybe not right then, but it builds up, and obviously. Tezuka exhales a long breath, gives Atobe's ass a slow squeeze, and lurches up to kiss the side of his neck, sucking long and slow just underneath one ear. "I'm probably going to just keep hitting them." 

 

Atobe tries to say something else, something about how Althea’s really quite nice and Dewberry’s a _riot_ when he’s saturated with expensive substances, but Tezuka is grabbing his ass so sweetly, so firmly that he can’t really think of much else. He sprawls out on top of him, grinding slowly down and nibbling on his ear. “What reward shall I give my hero, hmm?”

 

Tezuka would argue on most other occasions that he's jet lagged, and he has a lot of unpacking to do, and god _please_ just help me find a sponsor right now, that's a reward enough, but…

 

Atobe feels _good_ , and that's basically the number one thing on his mind at any given moment lately. _Hormones_. "Let me spend the night in your _comfortable_ bed," he groans, letting his head roll back, his pulse jumping at the touch of those teeth. "It's not covered in books, I hope."

 

“Unlike you, Kunimitsu,” Atobe pants out between rough swipes of his tongue, “I am content to simply read the books rather than constructing a cave out of them, and--fucking _hell_ , he’s driving slow today.” Maybe Valentine has started drinking again. That’s no good. 

 

Fortunately, it’s only a few more minutes before he’s dragging Tezuka out of the car, waiting until they’re safely inside the manor before he leaps into Tezuka’s arms. “I do like it when you fight for my honor, even if it wasn’t a smart thing to do.”

 

"Your honor, and your parents' honor," Tezuka corrects, wobbling only slightly. Thankfully, having to carry Atobe keeps his mind intact and coherent--at least, for now. He hefts Atobe up easily, sparing a kiss to the top of his head. "Point the way, princess."

 

Atobe would happily kill several men to protect the innocence of this moment. “Damn, but you’re stronger than you look.” He snuggles contentedly into Tezuka’s narrow chest, pointing towards the elevator that leads to his room. “That way and we don’t have to go past anywhere my father likes to spend time?”

 

Tezuka _does_ enjoy minimal contact with him, especially when he's carrying the man's son around in his arms. One elevator ride later, and Tezuka finds himself shaking his head at the sheer _size_ of the mansion. "And here I thought your houses in Tokyo were excessive." 

 

“They are...for Tokyo.” Atobe beams. “In Tokyo, earthquakes and wars have destroyed all the lovely old estates. Here, I can always find _some_ destitute Earl or Baron and buy up his ancestral holdings. Can we talk architecture later? I could be throwing _you_ around, my hero.”

 

"You could," Tezuka agrees, shaking off the reflexive anxiety that always tends to come from being in a house that more resembles a maze than anything. Atobe's room, although enormous, mostly seems taken up by a bed (as per usual), and tossing him down onto it offers a very satisfying bounce. "I seem to be doing more throwing tonight, though," he dryly points out, sliding onto the bed after him. 

 

“It isn’t bad, is it?” Atobe reclines back, more than content to bounce for the moment, looking up at Tezuka with what he has been assured are his most sultry eyes. God, it’s not hard, not when he has the satisfying memory of Tezuka punching Rolfie in his stupid fat smug face. He thinks about it, and his back arches a little, his legs splaying. “It’s almost a shame your preferences are so strong,” he murmurs, hooking a finger in his tie and tugging it loose. “The things I’d let you do to me tonight…”

 

"You'd hate it." He's quick and decisive in that response, even if seeing Atobe splayed out like that makes his mouth go dry. That being said--it isn't as if Tezuka has any penchant against climbing between his legs and having his mouth hot and wet on the side of Atobe's neck, all on skin revealed by his loosened collar. "I _could_ become very good at hitting them, though," he warns underneath his breath, his hands dragging down Atobe's sides to curl at his hips. "You probably shouldn't encourage me."

 

“I definitely should not encourage you,” Atobe agrees, fingers carding through Tezuka’s hair as he lets out a breathy groan. Damn, it’s only one time in a hundred he feels he’d _like_ being kissed and held and fucked, and Tezuka is simply not the man to ask for that. 

 

Still, he can make the most of these moments. 

 

Tezuka feels _good_ , firm muscles over sharp bones but still good, and Atobe shivers with every scrape of teeth on his neck. That is, of course, what collars are for. “Just be here, with me. Nothing else matters.”

 

"…Idea," Tezuka begins underneath his breath and against Atobe's ear, still thinking when he splays his fingers around Atobe's waist, tugs him close, wriggles down between his thighs. Thank god Atobe is softer and squishier where it counts, because if they were both nothing but bones, everything would just be uncomfortable. 

 

Which is sort of where he's going with his idea, but...

 

"Do you remember…ah…no, never mind, that probably isn't what you want." Sometimes, he is very certain that Atobe deserves someone 100% confident in everything regarding sex, which is _not_ him, and never will be, time spent reading trashy romance novels notwithstanding. 

 

Atobe’s eyes lid, and he wraps his thighs around Tezuka’s waist, undulating slowly as he grinds up against him, breath coming faster and harder as he gets harder in his pants. “Whatever it is you want, I guarantee I’m in the mood for it,” he says easily, dipping his fingers below Tezuka’s waistband to stroke and squeeze at delicious flesh. “Where do you want to put it?” Crass, but Tezuka needs to be led sometimes.

 

The way Atobe moves isn't really fair. It makes his cock twitch and his mind misfire, which could be worse--but it _is_ inconvenient when he's trying to actually talk. "I…" Tezuka sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes shutting briefly as he shoves his face down into the crook of his neck and kisses hard. "I just remembered…when I woke up hard that one morning, and you let me…" Talking is less easy, grabbing far better, and Tezuka isn't exactly going to pass up a chance to sink his fingers into Atobe's thighs any time soon. "You just always feel perfect here." 

 

Tezuka probably has no idea exactly what his voice does, and Atobe is pretty sure he doesn’t need to know. That would just go to his head.

 

Instead of saying anything about that, Atobe grabs Tezuka by the collar and yanks him down, mouth hot and wet and ready against his jawline, against his neck, up to his ear as his other hand moves to unbutton his fly, kicking off his pants. “I didn’t _let_ you, Kunimitsu,” he says, mouth quirking. “I like it just as much as you do.”

 

It’s good, heady and exhilarating and satisfying without the mess, the ache, the uncomfortable cramping tenseness that comes with actually bottoming. He starts flicking at Tezuka’s zipper, looking up to murmur, “You want me faceup? Or…” _Or is it easier, do you get less intimidated, when you don’t see my face?_

 

Tezuka doesn't know _why_ he always gets nervous that Atobe will think an idea of his is stupid, but god, is it a relief when he actually doesn't (like always). That shudder of relief is actually borderline orgasmic all on its own, and apparently, enough to send all of his blood rushing south. His vision blurs, and _this_ is why glasses are pointless around Atobe Keigo. 

 

"Just…" That's about as much as Tezuka manages before lurching down to kiss him hard, his teeth catching at Atobe's lower lip when he shakily bats away the other boy's hand to unfasten his own pants. He's hard enough that it hurts, the tip sticky and dripping. "Maybe," he murmurs between kisses, his cheeks flushing, and he's almost annoyed that he likes the idea of this so, _so_ much and is basically admitting it out loud, "if you were on your side, like the last time." 

 

Atobe takes enough time to wiggle out of the rest of his clothes. _You’re welcome, Tezuka. Feast on my glorious nudity!_

 

But that might kill the mood, so he doesn’t say that out loud. Not when Tezuka’s being so charmingly eager, when he’s actually asking for things and letting Atobe make his fantasies come true.

 

Fully nude, Atobe turns slowly, emphatically onto his side, looking up through his eyelashes at Tezuka and reaching down between his own thighs, rubbing gently over his achingly hard cock. “You’ll feel so good here,” he murmurs, arching.

 

Tezuka's breath leaves him in a rush, and it's a miracle that he doesn't lose himself right there. Swallowing hard does it, for the most part, as does shutting his eyes briefly when he _knows_ if he looks at Atobe for another second, he's done. _You're really not fair_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say it, not when he's _usually_ baffled that he's going home with Atobe on any given night.

 

It's even better tonight, for some reason. 

 

His own shirt and pants are quickly shed, and feeling Atobe's skin against his own when he slides up behind him makes his breath hitch. Tezuka buries his face into his neck, mouthing wet kisses there, over his shoulder, the back of his neck, breathing in sharply through his nose when his cock slides slick and hard against the curve of Atobe's ass. "Show me where you want it," he breathlessly manages. "It's all yours, anyway."

 

God. This isn’t anything Atobe would _ever_ admit to loving, craving, enjoying, but damned if he isn’t right now. He lets his head fall to the side, baring the skin of his neck, showing off the curve of his shoulder, ready to be tasted, ready to be entirely enjoyed before the night is through.

 

He belongs to Tezuka anyway.

 

It takes a bit of maneuvering to reach back and grab that achingly hot piece of flesh, and he bites off a groan as he does, urging it forward between his thighs. He squirms slightly, just enough to really press them together around it, and lets out a slow hiss when he does, his own cock twitching. “J-just there,” he breathes, mouth falling open. “Ahh, just-- _fuck me_ , Kunimitsu…”

 

As far as Tezuka is concerned, this is a dozen times more intimate than ever _really_ being inside. 

 

He's also _sure_ that it feels even better--for both of them, because he's not terrified of doing something wrong, and Atobe isn't constantly uncomfortable, and _god_ , Atobe's skin is soft _everywhere_ , but his thighs are obscene. Tezuka shudders and arches forward, getting an arm under Atobe to haul him back, suddenly _needing_ to be able to grab him even more and hold him close when his hips grind forward. " _Keigo_ \--" Atobe's name is a rasp into the curve of his shoulder, and Tezuka groans, sucking on that perfectly bared piece of skin, his eyes rolling back when he thrusts his hips and his cock slides sticky-slick between Atobe's thighs. 

 

It’s unusual for Atobe that most of his pleasure is coming from the neck up, rather than the waist down. Usually that’s how Tezuka operates, getting off more on the _idea_ of things than the physical act itself, and Atobe has never quite understood that concept...until now.

 

He’s going to have marks in the morning. He knows it, and that’s all part of the sensations overtaking him now, making him moan and push his ass back, head tipping forward as he arches. His thighs clench around Tezuka’s cock, and he leans slightly forward—

 

Ah, that’s nice. 

 

He shudders, and every time Tezuka thrusts forward, his cock drags against Atobe’s balls and the underside of his cock, teasing little hints of pleasure when Tezuka’s so thick and hard and hot between his legs. “Yes,” he breathes, reaching a hand back to claw at Tezuka’s head, yanking on his hair. “God, _more_ —”

 

Yes, _this_ was exactly what Tezuka wanted. 

 

Atobe demanding more, grabbing at his hair like that, squirming back like he loves it--Tezuka's long fingers bite into Atobe's hips, splaying there to pull him back when his hips slap forward, grinding up more to make _sure_ of where his cock rubs and slides. God, he doesn't mean to leave marks, but Atobe's skin begs for it right now, and his breath catches up in his throat when he can see the little marks that his mouth leaves, littered all over Atobe's neck and shoulders. 

 

Every damned squeeze of those thighs around his cock makes Tezuka's vision white out, and he grunts quietly as he hauls Atobe back a bit more, his hands sliding lower, pushing his thighs together and keeping them that way when he rocks forward. _You're made for this_ is what his mind dazedly urges him to say, but it doesn't sound _right_ on his tongue, and just having Atobe like this should prove that, anyway.  

 

Having a cock between his thighs is all well and good, but it isn’t going to make him _come_. Atobe starts to fix that, to reach down and grab hold of himself, then stops. This way, it’s all in such clear focus in a way that their usual games never are--the purpose isn’t to rut against some part of Tezuka until he comes, but to be a good and willing receptacle, to be pliant and warm and soft, to be anything like good at _taking it_ , and Atobe can’t help but enjoy that for once.

 

His head tilts back onto Tezuka’s shoulder, and he shoves back, riding out the wave, hips slapping back against Tezuka’s as his cock drips against his thigh. “Just like that,” he breathes, feeling how erratic, how close Tezuka’s getting, wanting to be a part of it. “Just like that, make yourself feel good…”

 

That isn't anything close to fair, and Atobe _has_ to know that. 

 

There's always something about Atobe's voice that makes Tezuka's mind effectively click off, and now is no exception. _Everything_ feels good, and Tezuka shudders hard, his mouth on Atobe's neck, his hands probably grabbing too hard, but that can't be helped when he's this hard and so, _so_ close. 

 

It doesn't take more than a few more hard, ragged thrusts, especially when he casts a glance down and can _see_ his cock between those thighs. His breath stutters and catches, and he's lost, spilling with a ragged gasp against Atobe's shoulder, hot and slick and sticky over the other boy's skin. 

 

 _This_ can't _be enough for you to get off_ , Tezuka dimly realizes, because Atobe isn't him, and god, he's glad for that. His fingers unfold from Atobe's hips, one hand immediately pawing up between his legs, over the hot, hard length of him. 

 

Atobe gulps for air, and reaches a hand down to lay it firmly over Tezuka’s, licking his dry lips (needs more lip balm) before taking another deep breath. “I want more than a little handjob, Kunimitsu,” he breathes, turning onto his back. His thighs part, sticky and slick, and he drags Tezuka’s captive fingers through the mess. “You’re going to satisfy me too, aren’t you?”

 

 _I'm probably going to come again at this rate if you just keep talking_ Tezuka dazedly thinks, his cock giving a weak twitch when Atobe drags his hand along like that. He nods thoughtlessly, but wavers, in an instant unsure and rather preferring it that way. "Anything you want." 

 

For a second, Atobe contemplates. He has to wonder, just for a moment, what Tezuka would _do_ if he just commanded him to _do whatever_. Doubtless he would enjoy the experience, but Tezuka might panic slightly, and that’s not exactly how he wants to end the evening.

 

Instead, he just nods down at his cock, slowly dripping onto his stomach. “Give me your mouth. I shouldn’t have to tell you what to do.” Unspoken is _but I will if I have to_.

 

 _You could_ is the response Tezuka's mind eagerly suggests, but _better_ is just doing it, and not having to say a word. He's always liked this, never _not_ been good at it, and he's fairly certain that Atobe has discerning taste, so there's that to shove away his nerves. 

 

He wriggles down, already a little out of breath just from the idea of it, and he doesn't know what possesses him to start with those damned thighs, but his mouth is there all the same, tongue licking up his own mess, sucking away stray drops as he makes his way back up to Atobe's cock. Tezuka's breath his ragged when he nuzzles at the underside of it and hot enough that it fogs up his glasses when he exhales. One long, wet lap of his tongue takes him to the head of it, the taste thick and masculine and enough to make him groan when he finally gets his lips around the head of Atobe's cock.

 

Atobe swallows down a strangled, desperate noise that he thinks is completely valid at this moment in time. 

 

His fingers come up to Tezuka’s hair. It’s probably still sore form his yanking and tugging before, but this is _good_ , this is what he almost always wants. Tezuka’s mouth is perfect, good without being sloppy, hungry and needy without being slavering, and there’s nothing better than the way he looks down there. “What a good boy you’re being, behaving for me,” he murmurs, pressing down on the back of Tezuka’s head to start fucking his mouth, unable to wait much longer. He’s so close, so hard, and so _ready_ to come that he doesn’t even care about stamina or proving anything. “Come on, finish me off, I know you want your reward.”

 

 _Why_ is it always so hot when Atobe just tells him to hurry up and get him off? 

 

It's probably better not to think about it too much, but it's definitely the fuel of a few dreams, and definitely what makes heat twist in his own belly again right now. Tezuka's next moan is sloppier when he follows the tug of his hair, swallowing hard when he gets his mouth around most of Atobe's cock, and then that last inch with an eager huff of breath, his nose nuzzling down into the other boy's stomach, into taut skin and hard muscle. 

 

He breathes in raggedly, trying not to let that one, wet gagging noise escape when he moves too fast, but he can't help it, and when Atobe's cock drips over his tongue, Tezuka's mind clicks off, anyway. The taste makes his head spin, and there's no _way_ he can have enough of it. 

 

Well, it’s not like Atobe ever lasts long _enough_ when Tezuka is sucking him off, anyway. 

 

Tezuka’s mouth is perfect, hot-sweet-wet around his cock, and all Atobe wants is to thrust into that perfect extravagance until…

 

Until nothing, because as suddenly as they’d started, he’s _done_ , falling hard and fast as his cock swells and spills into Tezuka’s mouth, down his throat, and ah, if it comes out of Tezuka’s nose again he’ll probably just flip him over and fuck him. 

 

That’s the last coherent thought Atobe has before he shudders, nails raking through Tezuka’s hair as he arches and squirms on the bed, riding it out by rubbing the head over Tezuka’s tongue. “Th-there,” he groans, eyes half-lidded but needing to watch. “So good, Kunimitsu…”

 

Tezuka has long figured out that Atobe doesn't _want_ him to be perfect and prim about swallowing it all up, and that's good, because he's _not_ particularly good at that part. 

 

He coughs, struggling to pull back just a little bit when it's _far_ too much for him to swallow all at once, and he ends up with his chest heaving, breathing in hard through his nose to keep letting Atobe rub against his lips and tongue if he wants, even when the mess of it spills partially down his chin. His tongue flicks out to try and lick up some of that mess, and he swallows hard around the taste, his eyes fluttering. 

 

Atobe lets out a noise that’s more a whimper than anything, rutting up helplessly a few more times, his cock bumping against Tezuka’s mouth before he collapses back. “ _God_ , Kunimitsu...you’re a fucking mess.” He is, blotchy and covered in slick fluids and gasping for air, and Atobe hauls him up to thunk his face into Tezuka’s chest. “You’re gorgeous. My mess.”

 

Tezuka breathes in deep, and swallows one more time, finally feeling like he's gotten everything that he _possibly_ can. "Where…does it even all _come from_ ," he breathlessly manages to ask, not really expecting an answer. He flops an arm over Atobe, dragging him closer. At least it didn't end up going up his nose this time, though he's fairly certain they're both weird and think that's hot, in a way.

 

Atobe can feel his consciousness melting away faster than usual, and he sighs, burrowing into Tezuka’s scant warmth. “Don’t care. Just care that it goes into you.”

 

 _Sounds about right._ As per usual, they don't really make it underneath the covers--they mostly end up wrapped up in some odd cocoon when Tezuka yanks up what blankets he can and curls himself up around Atobe, face buried down into his hair.

 

So much for that first night in his own apartment. This, predictably, is much better.

 

 


	2. Kite & Sanada, Zaizen & Kaidou

Normal people, Kite thinks, would be thrilled at these… _opportunities._

 

Being presented with his pick of several scholarships to esteemed private schools is stressful. His teachers tell him to be proud (and he is). His parents tell him that _they're_ proud (and that's good).

 

That doesn't make it any less daunting. 

 

For not the first time, Kite wonders why he even _applied_ to these schools. He wonders why he thought it would be such a good idea to leave Okinawa, but staring at his school's dilapidated tennis courts sort of seals that reasoning in his mind. 

 

"That's Kite, Higa-chu's captain," he remembers hearing at Nationals from onlookers, their voices hushed and full of awe. "He took four games off of _Tezuka._ "  

 

That takes _some_ of the stress away. _Yes, I_ am _that awesome._

 

There's one school that he eyes wistfully amongst his list, painted with a full scholarship and promises of tennis glory. But--

 

"Your friends shouldn't be the reason that you stay behind," his mother firmly tells him. "You have to think of your future." 

 

He _made_ a future here, is the thing. 

 

That doesn't stop them from promptly shipping him off to Kanagawa, and, well, that's the end of it--plus an unlimited text messaging plan. 

 

**To: Hirakoba Rin**

**Subject: Status check**

**Did Kai-kun go to practice today? If he skipped lunch, yell at him for me.**

 

Notably, Rikkai's tennis courts are enormous and beautifully kept. Kite's first instinct is to feel jealousy…and then he remembers that this is (supposedly) his school now, even though he's fairly certain he's gone through the entire week without anyone as much as saying a word to him. 

 

_Mainlanders._

 

The first day of club meet ups and practice, however, is a study in watching the middle school regulars chafe. Kite is content to linger on the sidelines with the rest of the first years, phone tucked in his pocket, though his eyebrows do start to climb courtesy of a _very_ direct--and impertinent--quip from a pair of first years to the third year captain.

 

"We'll be playing doubles one," one says, complete with spiky white hair (that's a wig) and legs for miles (it's not like he has to look that hard to see them). "Also, we'll be at practice when we _want_ to be." 

 

"…Uh huh," the captain says, tiredly, as if having already long resigned himself to such a fate. "And the ranking matches--"

 

The white-haired one snorts. "We're gonna be regulars anyway, so what's the point?" 

 

It's a disappointment that one Yukimura Seiichi isn't here, but…at least the team looks vaguely entertaining, in a horrible sort of way. 

 

At least, until he starts winning. 

 

"Game and match, Kite! 6 games to 1!" 

 

"Isn't that Higa-chu's old captain?" 

 

"He beat Yanagi's old doubles partner like it was nothing!"

 

"Nice game," Inui says, reaching out to shake his hand, and Kite tolerates it, even if he silently congratulates himself for exacting revenge for Aragaki and Shiranui's defeat at nationals. 

 

That's when the glares start, however, and Kite breathes in a slow breath through his nose. Rikkai is now less entertaining, more _typical mainlanders._  

 

~

 

Sanada has never been terribly fond of those he considers _usurpers_. It’s difficult enough to keep the ragged, tattered ends of the team together without anyone coming in and upsetting the apple cart. Yukimura is gone, Akaya is still in middle school, and neither Marui nor Jackal made the regulars this year--but it’s still Rikkai, still his team, and he _did_ promise Yukimura he would try to keep them together. 

 

He’d thought they would be falling apart a little more. As it is, Marui spends most of his time sulking and avoiding Niou while working on his game (he’d at least made sub-regulars), Jackal has been throwing himself into his family’s restaurant, and Niou and Yagyuu are always off in their own little world. 

 

It had seemed like a godsend, at first. After all, it’s been ages since Sanada has had the time to spend with Yanagi like he used to, and they’d been so close before Yukimura had pulled everyone into his gravitational loop. Sanada has many fond memories of their times together…

 

...which, unfortunately, seem destined to stay as memories. Inui Sadaharu, the new transfer from Seigaku, is omnipresent. Weirder, Mitsuya Akuto, one of their old upperclassmen, seems to be equally omnipresent. The three of them together are something to be warily ignored rather than sought out, and Sanada finds himself spending more and more time in quiet contemplation, focusing on his meditation, his kendo, his jujutsu, and if he has time, his music and schoolwork. 

 

**To:** **幸村清市**

**Subject: Checking In**

**Did You Eat Yet? It Is Breakfast Time In London.**

 

Someday, he’ll figure out his new phone. The other one was a gift from Atobe and had been excellent for his purposes, with large buttons and a bright screen. This one, Yukimura had informed him strictly, has Line, which is apparently something he needs now. It doesn’t have buttons at _all_ , and seems to be playing some new trick on him every day whether Niou gets hold of it or not.

 

Headed for his spot on the school’s admittedly fantastic training grounds, Sanada stops. Someone, someone he unfortunately recognizes, is on his mat, in his spot. _Usurper_. “That’s mine. Get off,” he says rudely, wasting no pleasantries on Kite Eishirou.

 

It's actually somewhat shocking how _rude_ mainlanders are, which is why Kite has always found himself perplexed when everyone (and anyone) talked about his team's lack of class. 

 

Kite hopes that the look he gives Sanada is just shy of melting his face off, especially when combined with a firm push of his glasses up his nose as he climbs to his feet. "I wasn't aware." Apologizing is beneath him if he's the one spoken to rudely first, he's sure of that. 

 

**To: Genichirou**

**Subject: Re: Checking In**

**i am sleeping go back to bed you weird samurai**

 

**To:** **幸村清市**

**Subject: Re: Checking In**

**The Phone Is Buzzing aGAIN WHEN I TOUCH THE BUTTONS NOW IT IS YELLING AGAIN**

 

Sanada shoves the phone back into his pocket, nodding towards the mat. “It has my name on it.” He eyes Kite warily, two big dogs sniffing each other. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here at this time.” _Which is why I’m here._

 

"…I didn't think anyone else at this school would bother laying claim to such things," Kite mutters underneath his breath, momentarily accepting defeat. Fine. 

 

**To: Genichirou**

**Subject: Re: Checking In**

**G O O D  N I G H T** **☆**

 

"To be fair, I didn't think anyone would be here, either--do I need to leave you to your other conversation, Sanada-kun?" Kite dryly asks.

 

“Given how often you’re on your phone during practice, I didn’t think you’d notice,” Sanada says, and levels a glare at Kite, folding his arms across his chest. “I heard you fancy yourself some kind of martial artist.” Why are students allowed to transfer, anyway? That seems like a useless exercise.

 

"I don't fancy myself a martial artist. I _am_ one." Kite feels a muscle in his jaw twitch, and he wonders how long it's been since he's checked his phone. He _does_ try to turn it off at times, but it's easier said than done. "I heard that you were something of a kendo champion. Again." Perhaps that means something more when it's in Kanagawa, and not in Okinawa.

 

**To: Eishirou**

**Subject: Re: Status Check**

**He ate my food. Why aren’t you ever worried about me?**

 

Attached is a photo of the coastline nearest the school, **KanagawaIsUgly.jpg** , and one selfie of Rin, Kai, Kei, and Chinen called **MissUsYet.jpg**. Chinen, by virtue of having the longest arms, is holding the phone.

 

“I _am_ something of a kendo champion.” Sanada easily corrects the tense, and wishes vaguely he had a sword in his hand right now. “I use it for contemplation. I’ve heard you use it as the only way to keep your team in line.”

 

Kite regrets taking out his phone in that moment, all to avoid giving Sanada a rather put out stare. He feels like throwing his phone out into the nearest body of water and swimming home. 

 

"I've done martial arts since I was a child," he stiffly replies instead, tucking his phone away without replying. "And I _used it_ to help teach them. It seems far more productive than the backhands I heard you used to toss about. Mouri-buchou seems to dislike those."

 

Sanada snorts. The utter certainty in his tone conveys very well, _If you had to deal with what I had to deal with, you’d understand._ “The pressures of running a team as successful as Rikkai are too strong for the faint-hearted. You wouldn’t understand having to live up to those expectations. How many National Championships has Okinawa won?”

 

"None, but considering Higa-chu's tennis team is going on only its fourth year, I consider even an invitation to Nationals a victory." _'You wouldn't understand'_ \--Kite envisions himself punching Sanada in the throat, and that quells his temper for the moment. "Considering you aren't running anything with Rikkai's tennis team this year, I suppose you expect us all to fail." 

 

Sanada levels a look at Kite that had always been quite effective at quelling Akaya’s rambunctious protests. “I have no problem with showing deference to a captain that’s earned it. Mouri-buchou is a good leader and an excellent singles player. If anyone were to show my captain and coach any disrespect--like delivering a serve at point blank into his gut and knocking him over--I’d consider it a personal insult.” Disrespect is _not_ something he tolerates, and he’s heard a _lot_ about Higa.

 

**To: Eishirou**

**Subject: Don’t ignore meeeee**

**Eishirouuu I’m gonna stomp the goya field if u dont text me back!!!**

 

**To: Eishirou**

**Subject: Sorry**

**That was Kai. He dropped his phone in the water again.**

 

**To: Eishirou**

**Subject: Sorry**

**Ok fine it was me, I jumped in the water and forgot I had his phone on me. Call him tho, we’re almost to his house.**

 

The look that Kite offers in return is far from impressed. "Consider it a personal insult if you must, but sometimes, there are extenuating circumstances." He pulls out his phone again, and sighs down at it. "At any rate, if you're done telling me what you have problems with and what you don't, I have other, more important issues to attend to." 

 

“I’m never going to be done talking about all the things I don’t like,” Sanada mutters, and pushes past Kite to examine his mat. Sure, it _looks_ spotless, but who knows what strange things Kite has tracked in from Okinawa?

 

**To: Hirakoba Rin**

**Subject: Re: Sorry**

**If you keep sending me pictures, I'll make you eat goya.**

 

Sanada, if he weren't such a horribly arrogant mainlander, might be a suitable opponent. Unfortunately, he is what he is, and that makes Kite grind his teeth at the thought of even being around him. 

 

Practicing tennis until he's sick is a much better option, he thinks.

 

~

 

For some reason, when Kaidou had imagined coming to Shitenhouji, he hadn’t quite _grasped_ what makes this school so different. Yes, he’d understood that the tennis club is full of silly weirdoes, that things are theoretically more relaxed, and that he’d probably be seeing a lot more of Zaizen, which he keeps trying to tell himself is a bad thing.

 

He hadn’t understood just _how_ different everything truly would be.

 

The first time he hears a teacher crack a joke, Kaidou blinks his eyes a few times. Is this elementary school? No, the uniforms and the sides of the building tell him it’s high school. Everyone around him is laughing and easygoing, shoulders propped up on the backs of chairs, pictures of smiley faces accompanying the text on the boards, and there’s still running through the corridors.

 

For the first hour, it feels foolish. It feels wrong, like accidentally putting on Hazue’s clothes and feeling a startling squeeze in weird areas. He’s sure he’s going to mess up, that they’ll find out he’s not funny and everyone will hate him, and that soon everyone will realize he’s not the fun, interesting person they wanted him to be. If he laughs, they’ll probably all turn on him. It’s got to be some kind of a prank.

 

In his fifth period class, he smiles a tiny bit at a joke. Just a little. No one notices. Something in him that was suspecting a prank relaxes a little, and he lets out a nervous hiss under his breath.

 

Surviving the day feels like success, but the kind of success he feels when he’s run a marathon--exhausted, painful success, coupled with the certainty that there’s no way in hell he could do it again the next day. But he’ll have to, he knows. 

 

He stops by his dorm room before heading to work out. At least Shitenhouji has a nice weights room. One quick shower, and he’ll—

 

This isn’t his room.

 

Kaidou stops dead with the door open, staring around the little cubicle. Sure, that’s his futon folded in the corner and his shoes arranged neatly by the door, but there’s also a large cage on a sturdy raised table, and inside that cage is a fluffy white rabbit with a big red bow around its neck.

 

Sweat drops form at Kaidou’s hairline. Surely, this is a mistake. Someone will be by any second to take the adorable thing away. Surely, the best thing to do is to not look at her fluffy little face, or her little shovel feet, or the way her ears flop to the side when she looks up expectantly with tiny blue eyes—

 

It’s not _his_ fault, he thinks defensively, that someone left such a cute animal alone, or that he’s doing the right thing by taking care of her. In five minutes, he’s laying on the floor on his back, and the fluffy white rabbit is snuffling at his chest, carefully exploring the territory, and nothing else in the world matters to Kaidou.

 

Zaizen gives him a few minutes. Bonding time, he tells himself, or time for Kaidou to freak out or think it's weird or…

 

Yeah, a few minutes is all Kaidou gets, because Zaizen is pretty ready to see his boyfriend's reaction. 

 

He slowly slinks by the door, lingers a few steps to the side of it, and only then pokes his head in, hands stuffed into his pockets. Shit. _Shit_ , Kaidou's cute, with that rabbit nosing at him and slowly hopping around the room and gghhhghgh--

 

Zaizen sucks in a breath too loudly, trying to preserve his own sanity. "Yo." 

 

Kaidou sits bolt upright, face flushed as he reaches for a bandana he isn’t wearing. He flattens his hair down instead, looking around the room for an excuse he doesn’t have. “Uh. Someone, uh, she’s obviously in the wrong room, I was just making sure she’s entertained--I mean, that she’s okay before her owner comes and finds her.” He picks up the rabbit, trying not to be obvious about giving her a last gentle squeeze before he puts her back in the cage. Embarrassing enough to be found out, but worse is that it’s Zaizen, who Kaidou is pretty sure is still on the verge of realizing that he isn’t cool at all. Certainly not cool enough for someone with piercings and a blog.

 

 _Good, he likes her._ A fair amount of tension unravels from Zaizen's spine, and his shoulders sag a bit. "Yeah, about that." Awkward. It's one thing to make out with a guy, or have sex with him, or…whatever, but giving him presents like this? So, so awkward, and _gay_. "I, uh. Actually, I got her for you." 

 

The words take a minute to sink in. When they do, Kaidou isn’t sure there are colors of the rainbow that his cheeks don’t turn in order, all the way down to purple. He wants to say that Zaizen doesn’t _have_ to do that, that he doesn’t need to buy him _presents_ like he’s some kind of...he doesn’t know, girlfriend? Poor friend? Shit, what if it’s that?

 

But for once in his life, reason asserts itself over caustic self-doubt. The look on Zaizen’s face says pretty clearly why he’d done it--because he’d thought Kaidou would like it. Kaidou remembers telling him on the phone about what kind of bunny he’d want, and this is _her_ , exactly her…

 

Kaidou ducks his head, still a vibrant shade of purple. He hisses a little before working up the courage to look at his boyfriend. “She’s...perfect. Uh, thanks. Thank you. She’s...I said that. Perfect.”

 

It’s impossible to hide the little smile on his face, as embarrassed as he is.

 

_Yes, this counts as points, pretty sure._

 

Zaizen exhales, more out of relief than anything else, and he rocks back to nudge the door shut with one foot. "Figured if Kenya could have his gross lizard here, you can have a bunny." It's still awkward, but Kaidou's smiling, and shit, yep, that's still cute. _Breathe, just fucking breathe._ He slowly shuffles in, and flops down onto the edge of the bed. "You'll have to name her and stuff." 

 

“Her name is Mochi.” It takes almost no time, but the idea does make Kaidou deliriously happy. He gives the bunny a kiss on the head, then sets her carefully back into the cage before thunking his head into Zaizen’s chest. “Perfect,” he says again, then shuts up, squeezing Zaizen close instead of embarrassing himself with more words.

 

Well, there's his brain short-circuiting for a moment yet again. 

 

Zaizen has to direct his gaze up to the ceiling--breathe, breathe, he used to be better with cute people--as he loops an arm around Kaidou and firmly squeezes back. "'m glad you like her," he mutters, butting his head into the crook of Kaidou's shoulder. "Thought you might need a welcoming present or something. This school is weird, right?" 

 

“Real weird. Uh, I’m not saying it’s bad or anything,” Kaidou says hurriedly. “I mean, I’m not sorry I came. ‘Specially now. Just...it’s a lot to get used to. Dorm life, too.”

 

"It's so weird. Seriously, there's nothing normal about this place." Zaizen slowly flops to the side, dragging Kaidou down with him. "If you ever get stick at staying at the dorms, you can just come home with me for the weekend or something."

 

Kaidou grunts at that, and tugs Zaizen down to the futon. It’s easier when they’re touching, somehow. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t exactly feel like himself. “I saw what you were eating for lunch today,” he mutters instead, unzipping Zaizen’s collar slightly and burying his nose there. “Looked awful. I’m making you a bento tomorrow.”

 

"Ah." He's _seen_ the stuff that Kaidou brings to eat all the time, and…yeah, that sounds appealing. Zaizen exhales a slow breath through his nose and stuffs his face down into Kaidou's hair, all surprisingly soft and smelling of fresh soap. "It's gonna make everyone jealous." _Good._

 

Kaidou makes a muffled noise into Zaizen’s chest. “‘S’nothing special. I mean, I’ll make it special for you.” It’s still something of a novelty to him that Zaizen is in some way... _available_ to him. He’s allowed to touch, and sniff, and kiss if he wants, and he takes advantage of that, hovering awkwardly above Zaizen for a second before brushing their lips together. 

 

Shit, Zaizen always tastes so _good_.

 

Yes, this is a very good response to gifting his boyfriend a damned bunny.

 

A low, pleased noise rumbles from Zaizen's throat, and he lurches up, curling a hand into the front of Kaidou's shirt to tug him down. Kaidou's somehow gotten broader over the fall and winter, and even seeing him off and on turn that time, it's only _now_ that he gets the stark realization of it all in one place. 

 

…And it's pretty fucking nice. 

 

"You got hotter," Zaizen mumbles accusingly. _He_ just got leggier, like a cicada or something. 

 

There’s still nothing like feeling Zaizen’s hands on him, _wanting_. There’s a part of him that’s still pretty sure Zaizen is going to haul him up by his collar like Momoshiro, threaten to beat his face in, and yeah, no, best not to think of that idiot when he’s got Zaizen beneath him instead.

 

“Don’t be dumb,” Kaidou mutters instead, and moves his legs so he’s more straddling, less squashing. Ah. Yeah. Good. “You’re hot. Missed you.”

 

Zaizen huffs out a breath, and lets his hands drag down Kaidou's sides instead, lingering at his hips before splaying there, a couple of fingers wriggling underneath his shirt. " _You're_ dumb. Already got half the school eyeballing you, or did you not notice?" 

 

Kaidou huffs into Zaizen’s neck. “Dumb,” he mutters again. “I’m the new kid, of course they’re staring at me.” He pauses a moment, then says with more confidence, “And I’m the tennis team captain.” Yeah. It’s not just Zaizen that wants him to come--the school itself had, too. They’d _asked_ him to be captain.

 

He reaches down and slides his hands up under Zaizen’s shirt, rubbing up over his belly and chest. “ _Your_ captain.”

 

Considering the little shiver that twitches down his spine, that apparently does it for him. _That might be an issue later_ , Zaizen dimly thinks, but he's not too concerned about it now when Kaidou's hands are on him like that and his thumb _just_ misses the ring going through his right nipple. Maybe he'll keep that one after all.

 

"Yeah, well," Zaizen mutters, scraping his nails down Kaidou's spine, " _Kaidou-buchou_ is also fucking hot. So there's that." 

 

Kaidou shudders, and his legs splay apart, thighs spreading to bring him into more contact with Zaizen’s hips, and yeah, that’s good. He nuzzles into the other boy’s neck, trying to remember not to leave any marks. “Did you lock the door?” he asks, voice husky. “I want to...make out.” It feels _lewd_ on his tongue, even saying that much aloud.

 

 _Did I?_ Shit, he doesn't remember. Zaizen cranes his head to the side a bit, trying to get a good look at the door knob even when his vision is blurring a little what with how hot Kaidou _sounds_. "Yeah," he breathes out, and an arch of his back helps his hips roll up, which feels _really_ good when Kaidou's above him like that. "We're kinda obligated to break in the bed, after all." 

 

Kaidou lets out a groan, and he can’t really be blamed for the way he immediately starts unbuttoning Zaizen’s school uniform. “Can’t believe you’re really here,” he mutters, and grinds down, feeling Zaizen get hard under him, and that’s just about perfect. “Can’t believe you got me a bunny. Let me…” He can’t say it, but he can reach down and lay a hand over Zaizen’s cock through his pants, squeezing gently and swallowing hard.

 

"Shit," is Zaizen's breathy exhale, his eyes rolling back at just that touch alone. It's one thing to jerk off and think about his boyfriend. It's something else to have a few hours alone with him when their schools met up for practice matches. This, though--this makes his mind click off and his cock even harder in seconds, because _this_ is something that they can get used to. "Please," he manages first, and then, with a hand pushing on Kaidou's shoulder a little: "Just--get _down_ there." 

 

That’s more than the permission Kaidou craves so strongly, it’s _desire_. Every time they’re apart, even for a few weeks, he somehow manages to convince himself that he’d imagined it, that Zaizen will get bored with him before they get together again, and that they’re not _really_ dating after all.

 

 _At least he likes it when I do this_ , he attempts to rationalize to himself, when really he just needs the barest hint of an excuse. Thanking Zaizen for Mochi-sama is good enough.

 

He peels back the halves of Zaizen’s pants, and the first time his tongue meets hot flesh, he doesn’t bother to hide his moan. That taste goes to his head like nothing else, and his licks and sucks are sloppy, hurried, eager.

 

Zaizen's actually pretty sure that he's _picky_ about this sort of thing, that he likes it done a certain way, but--

 

God, if Kaidou doesn't do it right every single time. 

 

His breath leaves him in a rush, and there's nothing to do but reach down and grab at Kaidou's hair, twisting his fingers up into it. His cock twitches and jumps underneath the first hot swipe of that tongue, and every suck and lick just makes him splay his thighs wider and groans catch up into his throat. 

 

" _Fuck_ , Kaoru--" The name is just sort of gasped out, and it's all because Kaidou's mouth is so damned hot and _wet_. 

 

Kaidou revels in the hands in his hair, the feel of Zaizen’s skin against his tongue, and nothing as much as he revels in the _taste_. Something about it is worse than a drug, and he knows he’s being gross, that he’s drooling and sloppy and that’s not sexy, but he can’t stop now.

 

His hands come up to splay on Zaizen’s thighs, feeling the muscles jump and twitch every time he does something right. He wants more of that, always more, and it’s more for his own sake than Zaizen’s when he slides his mouth over the head, sucking hard before he takes more. Nothing, he’s sure, could feel better than Zaizen’s cock sliding down his throat. _Maybe it’s any cock,_ a dark part of him whispers, but no, Zaizen isn’t just anyone, and his just has to be the best.

 

The things he's _thinking_ are a lot more lewd than what he can get out of his mouth, because Kaidou does a damned good job to reducing him to nothing but broken noises and ragged, hitching huffs of breath. 

 

He also does a pretty good job of making Zaizen's mind click off and just--god, he can't _help_ but dig his hands into Kaidou's hair and tug, coaxing him down further when his thighs bunch and his hips arch up to slide further down his throat. _Your mouth is perfect_ he wants to say, but good luck with that.

 

There’s a limit, apparently, to how much Kaidou can be aware of at one time. At the moment, all he can think, all he can be aware of, is Zaizen sliding down his throat in thick hot thrusts, forcing his way past whatever gag reflex Kaidou’s ever had, not that it was much. 

 

There’s no reason this should be _better_ , but Kaidou quickly discovers that it is. There’s no reason that being held down should make him harder in his own pants, but it does, apparently. The more Zaizen _uses_ his mouth, the more Kaidou likes it, the more he sucks hungry and messy and dying for just a little more on his tongue, a little more down his throat. His eyes are closed now, letting him just focus on _enjoying_ that perfect cock fucking his mouth. In the moment, it feels like everything he’s ever wanted.

 

If Zaizen was _smart_ about this, he would have already fished out his cell phone and recorded this from the very start. 

 

As it is, this is all his to enjoy, right now and _very_ thoroughly, and Kaidou's mouth just keeps getting better the more he fucks it, he's pretty sure. He's always pretty sure it's too much, that Kaidou's not going to like it, but he's usually wrong, and this is definitely a case when he's _very_ wrong. 

 

His cock bumps against the back of Kaidou's throat, and Zaizen whimpers, gripping Kaidou's hair tighter, his fingers digging into his scalp, and he holds his head there when he comes, his groan a ragged, broken noise when he's spilling and dripping all down his throat and over his tongue. "Sorry," he thinks to gasp out, "sorry--s-should have warned you, just--" It's _way_ too good. 

 

Kaidou doesn’t even hear him.

 

He’s lost in his own world, making obscene noises through his nose and mouth, all lips and tongue and _trying_ to keep his teeth off anything sensitive. His fingers are probably digging too hard into Zaizen’s thighs, but he can’t think about that right now. All he can think about is the thick bitter-salty-sour taste on his tongue, sliding down his throat, making his eyes roll back into his head. 

 

It’s long minutes later when he finally pulls back, lapping gently at every drop he can see, tongue dragging softly over Zaizen’s cock and balls and inner thighs, over hair and bald skin alike. He rests his cheek on one thigh, sighing contentedly. “Thanks.”

 

Zaizen stares bleary-eyed at the ceiling for a moment, attempting to process. " _You're_ thanking _me,_ " he breathlessly deadpans, slowly dragging a hand through Kaidou's hair, petting him. "Kaoru…you're _so_ good at that. Come up here and let me get you off, too." 

 

Well, that’s a nice bonus.

 

Kaidou crawls shakily up, sprawling out next to Zaizen and struggling with the clasp of his pants. It’s a new uniform, and it takes a minute before he’s free of it, hissing through his teeth when the cool air hits sensitive skin. “Just--won’t take long if you touch it—” He can’t help doing it himself, rubbing over the head with his palm and groaning as he leaves a wet streak behind.

 

Zaizen immediately rolls and scoots closer to grab Kaidou's cock, and--"You're _so_ hard," he mutters, always amazed at how much Kaidou honestly gets off at sucking him off like that, and god, that's enough to make his own cock give another half-hearted twitch. He shoves Kaidou's hand away, wrapping his fingers around the length of it for a long, firm squeeze, his thumb dragging over the slick, dripping head of it. "You look really, _really_ good when you're like this," Zaizen breathes against his mouth, catching Kaidou's lower lip with his teeth. 

 

Kaidou’s eyes slide shut as he groans, dragging his tongue over Zaizen’s. His cock twitches when he tastes cool metal, and the thought of that piercing makes his hips thrust forward hard.

 

There’s nothing for it, then. He clutches Zaizen close, whispering, “Good, you’re so good—” and ruts hard against his hand, feeling himself approaching the edge and riding it out as hard as he can. It might be a hand on his cock, but it’s worlds away from jerking off alone in his bed, a lifetime better than fantasizing about Zaizen’s tongue ring and hard abs and long fingers. 

 

His orgasm washes over him in waves, strong at first, then weak, then strong again for a last, elongated shudder of pleasure before he goes limp. He’s gasping for breath by that point, hips moving in urgent little circles until he finally slows to a stop. “God.”

 

"God," Zaizen agrees dazedly, slowly dragging his fingers away, sticky and slick and smearing a little over Kaidou's stomach. He considers for a moment, and then tentatively brushes those fingers against Kaidou's lips, his breath hitching when the sticky mess smears over them, leaving them glistening. "I _seriously_ need to record us one day."

 

Kaidou is still gulping for air, and he doesn’t even consider not licking his lips. It isn’t the first (or tenth) time he’s tasted his own. It’s not as good as someone else’s, but sometimes…

 

Even thinking like that brings the color to his cheeks. The thought of Zaizen recording it… “Yeah. Okay.” That’s not very modest or Japanese of him, but the thought _does_ make his cock twitch even now. “Whenever you want.”

 

"Or you could just come on cam with me some time…" Zaizen absently murmurs, idly nibbling at his own lip at the thought. Huh, whoops. That's not supposed to be as hot as it is. "We'll figure it out. You know, whenever you get bored around the dorms." 

 

“Still don’t understand what you do on those sites,” Kaidou mutters, and slings an arm around Zaizen’s waist, tugging him closer. Whatever those sites are, Kaidou’s pretty sure Zaizen’s hits or numbers or whatever would go down if he joined. People who want to see someone like Zaizen won’t want to see someone like him.

 

"Jack off for money, mostly," Zaizen answers with a long yawn, wriggling over until they're squished comfortably together--well, for a moment. He gives Kaidou's ass a half-hearted swat. "My games are expensive, and my parents will only pay for my ear piercings. Turn around. Spoon time." 

 

Kaidou turns over, immediately pressing back and grabbing for Zaizen’s arm. “Just don’t understand who’s paying you,” he says, brow furrowed. As soon as they’re settled, he relaxes back, inhaling deeply. “We could break it in again later, but this is a good start.”

 

"Just people. I don't know them, either," Zaizen idly points out as he hooks his chin over Kaidou's shoulder and snuggles up behind him, arm wound around his waist. "We have to break it in like, five times before it's official I think." He pauses, and glances across the room to Mochi. Shit. "We corrupted the bunny already."

 

“Don’t be dumb,” Kaidou says firmly. “Mochi-sama exists in a state of innocence. Only another bunny can corrupt her.” Duh.

 

What a relief. "Fuck. I'm trash. How dare I forget such a cardinal rule." 

 

“”S’okay, Hikaru. You’ll learn. Mochi-sama will forgive you.” Kaidou thinks for a moment, then adds, “It feels kind of weird to lie like this in the afternoon. We usually do this before bed.”

 

"Yeah, well. You're here, and there was a bunny. And stuff." Zaizen nudges his nose against Kaidou's neck. "At least we don't have anyone interrupting us."

 

“Hard to believe,” Kaidou admits. “I still feel like my dad is going to walk in or something.” Slowly, subtly, he shifts his hips back against Zaizen’s. It’s not that he even especially wants to start something else, but there are precious few times in his life he’s gotten to feel another man’s cock, hard or soft, and he wants to enjoy the experience while it lasts.

 

"He's three hours away, not gonna happen." Zaizen curls, tugging on Kaidou to get him closer. There's definitely an art to cuddling and they've more or less mastered it out of necessity (limited time together prior to now and all that). This includes the fact that Kaidou almost always makes Zaizen's dick hard, and that actually kind of makes it even better. "Now you just get to have members of the tennis team banging on your door at all hours."

 

“That’s responsibility,” Kaidou mutters, and he doesn’t mind that so much. His eyes close for a moment, and he lets out a slow breath, nuzzling back under Zaizen’s chin, comfortable and content. “I can still...you know. Taste it.”

 

That sends a shiver quickly down his spine. "…Now that you're here, you can have it whenever you want," Zaizen mumbles into Kaidou's hair. "You're so good at it." 

 

“You are, too.” Kaidou reaches back, threading his hands through Zaizen’s hair, rubbing his thumb gently over the piercings in one ear. “You always make it really good. Dunno what you do.” He’s not entirely sure it would make a difference as long as Zaizen let him suck as much as he wanted, but he _does_ love the way Zaizen holds him down and fucks his mouth.

 

"…I just enjoy your mouth, for the most part," Zaizen admits with a rush of breath to follow, his eyes fluttering shut when Kaidou just _has_ to start fiddling with his piercings. That's unfair. 

 

A lot of things are unfair, actually, but distance is no longer one of them. 

 

 _Thank god._  

 


	3. Shiraishi & Osamu

Shiraishi doesn’t have many places to go, not when there’s so much of his life that seems...for lack of a better word, known. 

 

Watari Michiyo is a nice girl, and Shiraishi has laughed at four or five of her jokes in their classes together. That may have been a mistake, because for some reason, Watari seems to know his entire schedule. She’s at the school when he arrives, and has brought him chocolate, which he thanks her for and pawns off on Kenya later (a lovely gift, but the quality of his skin is important). 

 

Watari is also outside his music class with a nice joke, which does brighten his day even if it surprises him. She’s _also_ outside his last class for the day with an offer to walk him home, even though he’s quite sure that he hadn’t told her his schedule. More disturbingly, after he begs off to supposedly go pick up his little sister, she shows up outside of the darkroom where he’d been completing his photography assignment. 

 

It stars to dawn on Shiraishi that this probably is _not_ a coincidence.

 

When it happens for the fifth time in two weeks despite his schedule changing frequently, Shiraishi starts to get suspicious. Someone, though he has no clue who, has been selling information on him. The only place, it occurs to him with a pang of regret, that he never spends _any_ time these days is the tennis clubhouse. He isn’t on the team, not this year, but has been meaning to come over and help out the middle school team on his off days, and ducks in now…

 

To find it nearly entirely empty of people. A quiet rhythmic chanting in the distance tells him that he’s just missed Captain Kaidou leading the team out on a run together, and the only person left is—

 

“Hey, Coach.” Odd, that he reverts immediately to calling Osamu by ‘coach,’ when he’d called him so familiarly when the man actually _was_ his coach. He sets down his bag by the door, not wanting to intrude even on an empty locker. Strange, that this place that had felt like home for so long feels so alien after just a couple months. “I was wondering if Kaidou needed a hand. Sorry to intrude.”

 

The thing about having Kaidou Kaoru as captain this year is that Osamu doesn't have _so_ much to do, and that's nice. Mostly, he has to firmly tell Zaizen to make sure that he's being taken care of, and when Zaizen agrees, sort of grumpily and flustered, Osamu leaves it be. 

 

This is why when Shiraishi shows up, Osamu is waking up from a nap. He stifles a yawn, pushes his hat up and off of his face, and offers the kid a lazy grin. "Kuranosuke-kun! You're not _intruding_ , you're _late_ , when is the last time you even _thought_ about coming around here?" 

 

He's on his feet with a last stretch, and slings an arm solidly around Shiraishi's shoulders. "We've got some brats this year; are you really going to let Kaidou-kun handle it all himself?" 

 

“I’m sorry,” Shiraishi says with some chagrin, trying to bow but not being quite able to when Osamu’s arm is around him...at an angle, which is interesting. He blinks a couple of times, and decides not to mention it. Osamu is warm and relaxed, and sometimes, that’s what he really craves for a minute. 

 

“I’ve been busy with high school. I’ll admit, it’s harder than I thought it would be! There are only two comedy classes offered in my whole year!”

 

"All the better to focus on your strengths," Osamu cheerfully replies--and then he notices it. "You're a weed. _Why_ are you a weed, everyone on this damned team is a weed now--have you seen Zaizen lately?" 

 

 _Or maybe I'm just short_ is the rueful thought to follow. No, kids these days are literally just weeds. 

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He’s not really sorry, and knows that it shows in his voice. “I’ll try to come more often. Training is going well, isn’t it? When I came to check up last time, Kaidou seemed like he knew a lot of exercises, and was pretty good at keeping everyone in line.” He wants to say that he wouldn’t have left if that hadn’t been the case--but he hadn’t left, had he? Has he? It’s hard to say anymore.

 

"He's doing a great job-- _he's_ not the problem," Osamu dryly points out, removing his arm with a last squeeze and flopping back down onto the edge of the clubhouse's lone table. "But I seriously doubt you showed up here to deal with the Echibrat. Corporal punishment doesn't do much, Kintarou-kun slings him around enough already." 

 

Shiraishi blinks a couple times, leaning back against the lockers. This feels familiar, talking about strategy and teammates. “Echizen? I’d have thought he’d have a good head on his shoulders, since he was a national champion last year. I can’t imagine Tezuka Kunimitsu stood for too much sass from what I’ve been able to understand.”

 

"Uh huh. Well, _here_ he enjoys sleeping, playing tennis with Kintarou-kun, and more sleeping. I mean, personally, I understand the allure of sleeping the day away once in awhile, but…" Osamu shrugs, leaning back onto his hands. And now for the kicker. "He's _never_ on time."

 

“I’ll have a talk with him.” The words are out of his mouth before Shiraishi stops to think that he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on in any confrontation--but surely, Echizen just needs to be made aware of his entirely inconvenient rudeness. This just won’t stand. He folds his arms, remembering past failures to drag his teammates in on time. “At least Chitose is attending marginally more classes this year. His attendance rate is up to 51 percent.” Maybe a _little_ of that has to do with the fact that his dorm is on the way from Shiraishi’s to their mutual first class of every Tuesday and Thursday morning.

 

"He comes out _here_ more often than you do," Osamu teases, kicking a foot slowly back and forth. "So what's the occasion, huh? Hiding from your ex? Don't tell me it's because you want to join the team again." _But you could, the high school division's going to fall on its face._

 

“I wish,” Shiraishi says honestly. “Ah, no.” He turns to look out the door, just on the off-chance--and shuts it quickly again, glad that he hadn’t opened it far. “ _How_ does she keep _finding_ me?”

 

Osamu cranes his neck to get a brief look out of the window. "Huh. She's cute! Bad break up, or stalker? Try introducing her to Kenya-kun, that usually sends girls running."

 

Shiraishi notices the window too-late, and quickly sits on the bench next to Osamu. “Definitely not a breakup, I’m only partially sure of what her given name is. I don’t _think_ she’s a stalker, but I just…” He shrugs. “I wanted to walk home without feeling pressured? I suppose that’s selfish, she hasn’t done anything to me. I just…” It’s hard to think of the words, but Osamu is a good listener, always has been. “I always feel so nervous around girls. Like they’re expecting something from me, you know?”

 

 _Ah, yes, you are still shockingly oblivious._ "Kuranosuke-kun," Osamu says, resting a hand on Shiraishi's shoulder, "you're not being selfish. You're not obligated to spend time with anyone, let alone some girl you barely know. If she makes you feel uncomfortable, then it might be time to let her down gently--assuming she's been gearing up to confess to you, which sounds about right."

 

Shiraishi sighs, leaning slightly into the touch. High school is strangely devoid of most of the friends he’d had that have always been keen to invade his personal space, and the adjustment isn’t as seamless as he’d been expecting. “I’ll do that if she confesses,” he agrees. “Hey, have you heard from Koharu and Yuuji lately? Or Koshikawa, or Gin?”

 

Osamu gives up, and drops his hand on top of Shiraishi's head instead, deciding to give his hair a firm petting. " _Hear_ from those two? They're here half the time, and they're always…" Oh, shit. Osamu bites back a groan. "Asking about you," he finishes, sighing heavily. "Damn. We all might be partially responsible for your stalking, sorry about it." 

 

Shiraishi looks up, butting his head into Osamu’s hand. “You think they set me up? Ah, I should have known something was up when they asked me to text them a photo of my class schedule,” he realizes slowly. “I thought they were just curious! Why would they tell Watari where I am all the time?”

 

"Probably," Osamu wryly notes, "because you have a certain penchant for avoiding potential girlfriends. I think they're just worried about you." He scritches his fingers down into Shiraishi's scalp. "To be fair, they're so dependent on one another that they don't understand people that don't _need_ a relationship. You'll be with a girl when you want to be."

 

The idea is not particularly appealing. It doesn’t _bother_ him, it just...doesn’t do much, no more than it ever has. Fortunately, Shiraishi has his old tried, true, and accurate excuse at the ready. “I’m really far too busy right now to think about a girlfriend.” He almost adds that if he’s too busy for _tennis_ , he’s _certainly_ too busy for a girlfriend, but no, that’s not how most people see it, he thinks.

 

"Considering you can't even join the tennis team, that's obvious!" Osamu laughs, giving his head another light pat. "I'll tell them to back off the next time they start asking about you. The last thing you need is some silly girl chasing you around and begging for your attention. Spend that time harassing Echizen-kun for me."

 

“Will do, Samu-chan!” Shiraishi hears himself and bites his lip, giving the coach a smile. “I can still call you that, right? I really shouldn’t be calling you coach anymore.”

 

 _Ugh._ It's still so damned _cute_. Osamu groans and just grabs Shiraishi, hauling him into a hug. "Do you know that none of these kids except Kintarou-kun call me that now? It's a damn shame, I'm suffering here without you! If I hear you call me coach one more time, I'll cry!"

 

Shiraishi laughs, and the last of the tension he’s been carrying around for what feels like far too long evaporates. “No crying, you’ve got to set a good example for the kids! Ah, you don’t think Kaidou will feel like I’m barging in on his practices, do you? I don’t want him to feel like you and I don’t trust him.” This feels _comforting_ , planning things out with Osamu. Osamu always makes him feel not just comfortable, but competent.

 

"You're my assistant coach," Osamu announces, releasing him with a  last squeeze. "No pressure, no obligation, so don't stress over it," he quickly adds. "But this way, there's no question of you 'barging in.' Either way, he respects you a lot. He knows a great player when he sees one, and he'll appreciate your advice." 

 

Shiraishi isn’t entirely sure about that. He’d known several team captains, in his own third year, that would never have wanted advice from a graduated student. “If you say so,” he says, and that’s him committing to it, so he doesn’t need to worry. “I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to say if he really has it all in hand.” He tugs at a lock of Osamu’s hair. “You need a haircut. Isn’t anyone taking care of you?”

 

"Oi, did I tell you to harass me? Harass _Echizen-kun_ , he's the problem," Osamu mutters, swatting Shiraishi's hand away half-heartedly. "Him and Kintarou-kun, who I _know_ will listen to you. Scare him a little, bring out those bandages again, it'll be great."

 

Shiraishi frowns, rubbing the wrist where his golden gauntlet had rested for so long. “Did you not give it to Zaizen or Kaidou this year? I thought for sure you’d have passed it on. You didn’t sell it, did you?” Osamu does have something of a gambling habit, they all know too well.

 

The look Osamu gives him is nothing short of affronted. " _That gauntlet_ is reserved for you, should you ever decide to grace us with your presence once more. Never mind that Kaidou-kun already hits too hard and Zaizen-kun's arms are too skinny."

 

“But it should be passed on!” Shiraishi flexes his arm experimentally. It still feels weird not to have an hour of bandage care every night, but with as much homework as he has now, it’s not an unwelcome change. “Do you think I still need it? Last year you said it had done its job, I don’t want to be greedy.”

 

"Depends how much you've been practicing--you've probably lost a lot of form, haven't you?" Osamu hums. If Shiraishi weren't so desperately attempting to avoid girls, he wouldn't be laying this on so thick, but…what the hell, he needs a distraction, and Koharu and Yuuji need a reason to leave him alone. "What am I going to do with an assistant coach that isn't up to par, I wonder…"

 

“I’ll train hard!” It’s one more extracurricular, and he’d _promised_ his mother that he wouldn’t take it on, but…. “I’ll think of something to tell the counselor,” he promises, already thinking of how much earlier he’ll have to wake up every morning. He feels itchy now, doesn’t want to say how _excited_ he is, but it’s true nonetheless, god is he ever excited. “Do you want to hit a few rounds right now? Just until the others get back?” Thursdays are his one free afternoon a week, and it would be lying to tell himself that he hasn’t longed to be here every Thursday since April.

 

"That _would_ show your wannabe-girlfriend how busy you are…" Osamu _might_ already be snagging that Echizen brat's extra racquets out of his locker. "Oi, Kuranosuke-kun. Before you get too into this--your studies come first. _Assistant_ doesn't mean that you've gotta be here day in and day out like you were in middle school. Got it?" 

 

“Sure.” Shiraishi agrees too easily. He’s already plotting training regimens, already dying for the feel of a racquet in his hand, eyeing the extras that come out of the locker. “I don’t suppose you have a Mizuno in there? I didn’t bring mine, obviously…” He’ll have to start keeping an extra set of clothes here again. Why had he thought he could give this up for a year, when even the _idea_ of being able to be with the team on a regular basis makes him feel like no Watari Michiyo ever could?

 

"Kid's got a damn arsenal, I bet he--aha, yeah, here you go!" Might as well snag a fresh can of balls, too, who's gonna notice, not that rich brat, and with that, Osamu leads the way outside. "Should I be nice to you because you're so out of practice, Mr. Perfect?" 

 

“And I’ll hit slow for you, old man,” Shiraishi teases, twirling the racquet once before gripping it, taking off the outer shirt of his uniform. “Warm-up rally, then play to twelve?” They won’t finish. They never have. Osamu always comes up with some fake injury or job he has to attend to, putting it off until next time when Shiraishi is privately certain that he could probably win any match he chose, and is deliberately protecting him from that.

 

To be fair, he _is_ getting old. Gross. Osamu sighs and sets his hat more firmly in place. "Yeah, yeah, the usual." If he's correct, the team will be back from their run by the time they get to the fifth point. That's more than enough for him today; he could be sleeping (had planned to be sleeping). "Here," he offers, tossing a fresh ball over to his newly-named assistant. "Your serve." 

 

Shiraishi grins, bouncing the ball a few times and almost vibrating out of his shoes. He can’t beg off for being in clothes that aren’t good for athletics, either, not since he’s pretty sure Osamu has never put on a pair of shorts in his life. Shame, really. 

 

He draws back his arm, realizing only now how much he simply hasn’t _allowed_ himself to miss this. “Should I just call it seven-love now?” he calls, and slams the racquet forward, feeling that perfect reverberation of the ball against the sweet spot all the way through his left arm.

 

Oh, _good_. Shiraishi's not so out of practice after all.

 

Which is, of course, why Osamu moves well in advance of that serve even clearing the net. There's a tendency to be in a hurry when it comes to playing Shiraishi, and even he's not exempt from that (even when he should be). "This is why all the girls want you," Osamu tosses back, one solid whipcord of a forehand sending the ball right back to Shiraishi's feet. "They _do_ love confidence!"

 

Osamu is a strange man. Shiraishi knows that, and ignores that weird remark. He knows where that forehand will go, and it’s an easy move to be in the right place at the right time. “It’s easy to be confident when the ball is so predictable,” he retorts, and sends it back over the net with a slice to the opposite corner, knowing how much Osamu hates running. 

 

This feels _right_. This feels like everything he’s missed for the last few months, like trying on an old favorite item of clothing and finding that it fits better than ever before. Nothing feels as good as the court under his shoes, or even the unfamiliar width of the stranger’s racquet in his hand.

 

He’d _known_ it was right to come to Osamu with this problem. That’s never been a bad idea yet.

 

Osamu groans to himself, and begrudgingly goes after that ball, marking a mental tally. He's got a few of those left in him, how unfortunate. "You can think highly of yourself after you hit something I can't reach," he grumbles, adjusting his hat again after sending the ball right back to Shiraishi's feet one more time. The kid's one of the most balanced tennis players he's ever seen, but he _does_ like to get ahead of himself and assume patterns will be constant. Now, if only Shiraishi would stop making him run (rude).

 

Aha, Osamu is already falling into one of his patterns. This time, Shiraishi thinks, the energy he’s been missing starting to course in his veins again, he’ll _force_ Osamu to concede all seven points. He knows just how to hit this ball, exactly how to return it in the perfect way, because of _course_ he does. He grins, and even takes a moment to stretch after hitting it. _I haven’t lost it. I’m still perfect._ Out of the corner of his eye he can see Watari watching him, hiding behind a tree, and can’t even bring himself to care when he’s playing tennis.

 

One more, Osamu settles upon, trying not to roll his eyes too obviously. _Kids_. No, more accurately, _tennis players_. _We're an arrogant bunch, aren't we?_ he dryly thinks to himself, and it's a backhand this time after an almost belated dash to catch up to Shiraishi's last ball. Whoops, there's the twinge. How pleasant. "Trying to make me work for that point, Kuranosuke-kun?" 

 

Shiraishi had already moved to be exactly where the next shot was going to go-- _should_ have gone--and it’s a mad run and a somewhat painful slide to catch up now, batting it into a lob that he scrambles desperately backwards to be able to return. Osamu’s backhands are always hell on earth to predict. “Save your breath for running!”

 

"Not gonna do that," Osamu breathes, backtracking several paces until he can catch the ball at its absolute lowest. The slice he hits back is low--too low, by the standards of most, and indeed, it skims the net, wobbling as a cord ball before deftly tipping over onto Shiraishi's side. " _That's_ why you need to be nice and just let me stand in one place."

 

Shiraishi huffs out a breath, jogging forward to pick up the ball and toss it to Osamu before heading back for the baseline. “That’s the only point you’re going to get,” he warns, stretching out a hamstring and waiting for the serve. “You ever going to tell me where you learned how to hit cord balls like that?”

 

"Pure instinct," Osamu hums, _knowing_ that answer makes Shiraishi more frustrated than absolutely anything. "If you'd ever relax, you'd have a better time of figuring it out, but…" A shrug, and he tosses up the ball, sending it over with a hard slice serve. Ahh, he doesn't want to move any more. 

 

“Relaxing won’t get us to nationals!” Ah, how many times has he said that sentence? And Osamu has _never_ listened, not even when he’s really supposed to be less relaxed about leading the team than Shiraishi is. He gets _paid_ for it, after all. He goes after that serve--too good, always too good to be the “pure instinct” Osamu claims it is--and cracks into it with a powerful backhand that comes within an inch of the net...without touching it, of course. That wouldn’t be _perfect_.

 

"Ahh, very good, very good--you've been holding out!" It _does_ take effort to hit that shot back, which sends a thrill down Osamu's spine like none other. There are moments--like this--when he just wants to take Shiraishi aside and sit him down and tell him _you could go somewhere with this, you could be a pro._

 

And then he thinks, just as quickly, _never mind_ , because the kid clearly just wants to have fun, and that's just as valid. 

 

Then again, when a kid can make _him_ hit a lob back, Osamu just has to sort of sigh wistfully. Damn, the professional world is missing out. 

 

A lob--this is a chance, and Shiraishi’s world narrows to the graceful arc of that ball, wrapped up for him like a gift, soaring neatly down to his racquet. At least, that’s how it feels in the moment, and he takes more pleasure than he’s felt in ages to slam it over with an overhand smash. Yes, he doesn’t miss wearing the gauntlet, though its power still aids him sometimes.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Watari let out a huff as she turns and walks away. The very last bit of tension he’d felt evaporates, and he’s a hundred percent focused on The Game.

 

Ah, hell no, he is _not_ chasing that. Osamu just whistles, letting the ball soar past him after neatly slamming into the baseline, and he shakes his head. "That one," he declares, "was well-deserved. Maybe that growth spurt of yours gave you some power, too."

 

Shiraishi grins. “Ahh, Ecstasy!” It’s never been more appropriate than it is now, when that’s exactly what his heart is pumping out with every beat. He catches sight of Kaidou leading the team back from their run, most of them looking a little worse for wear, and sighs. “One more point?” he nearly begs, running after the ball like some kind of retriever. “Two out of three.”

 

"Sure, sure, but if you try to make me run around like that again, I'm gonna whip you," Osamu threatens, giving up on his hat and tossing it over to the fence.

 

"So he _can_ move," is Echizen's deadpan from the front of the pack (obnoxiously enough, the little shit is in very good shape). 

 

Shiraishi laughs, tossing the ball into the air before serving what to any other opponent would be an ace. “You don’t beat them all when they join to keep them humble anymore, Samu-chan?” In the background, he can hear Kaidou ordering everyone into the showers to cool off, though he doesn’t move himself from the side of the courts, watching every movement of the game.

 

"Che--you think I have time for that when I've got so many rookies running around?" Osamu laughs, deciding to use the last little bit of run he's got left in him to dart quickly after that ball and send it sharply over the net, right to the middle of the court with a high bounce. " _You_ can run them around the court later."

 

Shiraishi leaps into the air, jumping as high as he can for the ball…

 

Only to have his school shoes slip on the court, robbing him of the momentum and traction he needs to send back that perfect smash.

 

He hits the ground hard, grunting at the impact on his legs, and wipes his hair back from his face with a smile. “You’re right, Samu-chan. I still have a lot to learn. The best way to learn something is to teach it, isn’t it?”

 

Stupid, to think he could ever leave tennis behind. What had he been thinking?

 

"Good boy!" Osamu walks his way to the net, stretching his arms with a grin. "Keep at it, and you'll be able to tear everyone to pieces. That's what any respectable assistant coach should be doing at a nationally ranked school, after all." 

 

Shiraishi retrieves the ball, plopping it back into the can before thrusting out his hand. “You didn’t even have to pretend you have an injury this time,” he teases.

 

"Ehh, given another few shots and it would have been a different story," Osamu lightly shoots back, giving Shiraishi's hand a firm squeeze. "And look, your stalker's gone. I always thought it was a pain in the ass that girls didn't want to sit around and watch me play tennis all day, but for you, it seems like a good way out." 

 

Shiraishi shrugs, and squeezes back. “Anyone who wants to hang around and watch me play is welcome to do it for as long as they want. I’m sure she just had a lot to do. High school is _hard_.”

 

"Uh huh." The poor boy is oblivious, but maybe that's for the best. He doesn't need a girl harassing him, anyway. "Just make sure you steer clear of girls that aren't going to appreciate tennis, yeah? It's the best way to tell if they're any good." 

 

"Most girls are dumb either way," is Echizen's bored response as he slowly walks over, hair still damp from his shower. "Oi, Coach, Used-to-be-Captain, can I have my racquets back?"

 

"You can play us for them," Osamu archly proposes.

 

"Don't wanna. You're both boring."

 

"This is literally what I deal with every day," Osamu says with a tired sigh in Shiraishi's direction.

 

Shiraishi hands the racquet over, though he doesn’t bother telling Osamu to do the same. That way lies madness, he knows very well. “Thank you for letting me borrow it, Echizen-kun,” he says, with a nod of his head. “Sorry, next time I’ll have my own racquet. Then we’ll see what Shitenhouji’s new ace is really made of.” Being an ace is all well and good, but it’s not all that important next to diligence and hard work, not to mention punctuality. “Maybe if you start coming on time, your racquets won’t go missing before practice, too.”

 

The stare Echizen fixes upon his new assistant coach is really sort of unnerving, Osamu thinks. "Kintarou is never early, so why should I be?"

 

"Oh, just get out of here," Osamu grouses, shoving his own borrowed racquet back into the brat's grasp. "Have you ever seen such a horrible personality? Good luck getting _him_ to laugh, I thought Zaizen-kun was bad!"

 

“I’m not sure Kintarou can read a clock,” Shiraishi mutters. Out of instinct and long practice, he ducks, and just in time, because a flurry of red and yellow-green sails over his head where he’d just been standing. 

 

“Aaah!! I’ll get you for that one, Shiraishi!” True, he can’t _always_ read the clocks with the hands on them, but that’s what the ones with the numbers on them are for! “You be nice to Koshimae!”

 

If Shiraishi had ever wished for his “poison” hand back, it’s now.

 

"He's an instigator, that one," Osamu hisses underneath his breath as he leans closer to Shiraishi. "Has Kintarou-kun all around his little finger, knows how to make Kaidou-kun lose his cool, it's just one big mess!"

 

Echizen sort of sways with the impact of Kintarou's inevitable latching onto him. "He's being nice. Kintarou, let's go eat takoyaki."

 

“Woohoo!” Kintarou nearly climbs Ryouma, but no, not since he’s grown. This time, he just latches onto his arm, half-dragging him in the general (wrong) direction of the restaurant. “Ta~ko~ya~ki~!”

 

For a minute, Kaidou looks very much like he wants to go after them and exact some punishment, before he catches Zaizen’s eyes and just sort of relaxes on cue. “Hmph. I’ll just have to tire them out harder tomorrow. Maybe twice as many laps. Sorry, coach, I’ll do better.”

 

"No, remember, it's near my apartment, so it's _this_ way, Kintarou--"

 

"Eh, Echizen-kun at least is getting his own kind of punishment," Osamu wryly notes, shaking his head as he straightens up and goes to retrieve his hat. "You did good today, Kaidou-kun. By the way, if you ever have questions or need advice when I'm not around--you remember Shiraishi Kuranosuke, don't you? Consider him my number two." 

 

Zaizen doesn't bother to stifle a groan. 

 

Shiraishi briefly longs for the gauntlet that made it _so_ easy to whack Zaizen over the head, and grins. “Don’t worry about it, Captain, I hear you’re doing a great job.”

 

Kaidou blushes a little, and ducks his head in a bow. “I’m grateful for any assistance you’re willing to give, Shiraishi-….fukubuchou?”

 

Shiraishi waves a hand. “No titles necessary. I’m just here to make sure everything runs on time, I mean smoothly.” _Be worried, Zaizen. I know where you live._

 

"Echizen's the one never on time," Zaizen flatly says on reflex. "Just so you know. Not me. You're looking at me all weird, Shiraishi…uh…san." It's weird not calling him captain, but still really good.

 

"He wears earbuds to practice," Osamu whispers to Shiraishi before cheerfully striding back off to the clubhouse. 

 

Zaizen twitches, and something suspiciously close to "I hate this school" escapes underneath his breath.

 

~

 

Knowledge is power. As the assistant coach, a position Shiraishi is embracing, if he hadn’t been seeking it, he knows how important it is to find that knowledge at any cost, if they want a chance to win.

 

So when Osamu tells him about the exhibition that Rikkai Dai Fuzoku is putting on in Kanagawa this weekend, Shiraishi promptly cancels his other plans. He can go go a cram session on another Saturday, he tells himself, and sets his alarm for even earlier. The middle school is having a non-optional Saturday clean-up, so Shiraishi slides into the passenger seat of Osamu’s beat-up old car with a yellow license plate (for “half-engine”), healthy drinks and snacks packed for their scouting expedition.

 

The first thing he does is pull the cigarette out of Osamu’s mouth, even before saying _good morning_. “Please don’t smoke the whole way to Kanagawa,” he says firmly. “There’s nowhere for me to escape in here.”

 

The look Osamu shoots him is remarkably dark. "You don't know how I suffer day in and day out," he mutters, turning the car on. He does, for now, refrain from lighting another cigarette. "I don't need to hear it from my supposed-to-be-supportive-second-in-command that I need to stop smoking."

 

“I’m being supportive,” Shiraishi says mildly, and rolls down the window in a fruitless attempt to aerate the car and possibly not smell like cigarettes for the rest of the week. “I’m supporting your long-term health. You need to take better care of yourself, Samu-chan. Hey, you can try yoga with me! That will really relax you and help you breathe!”

 

"Kuranosuke-kun," Osamu says as he turns out onto the road, "I'm not gonna do that." 

 

He _could_ use with a smoke or five--it's early, and that's a great way to wake up--but he still resists. He just doesn't want to listen to Shiraishi whine the whole way there about it, and eh, if he can take a level off the kid's stress for at least a couple of hours… "More importantly," he says lightly, "Rikkai's middle school team is apparently just over average for them this year. I mean, yeah, they're all still nationally ranked, but when you don't have their line-up from two years ago, anything's average. How excited are you?"

 

“Given that we just poached two of the best players from the team that _beat_ the Invincible Rikkai?” Shiraishi’s hands twist in his lap, and his knee jiggles up and down as he watches the scenery. “I’m so optimistic that it makes me nervous, if that makes any sense. I mean, there are always the rookies--they changed everything last year--but how many times are you going to have a crop that gives you not only a Kintarou, but an Echizen? I just don’t want our boys getting complacent.”

 

"Or too obsessed in the competition. Zaizen-kun's already mellowed Kaidou-kun out a lot, but you're gonna have to keep an eye on him," Osamu points out, getting comfortable by leaning over the steering wheel a little. "Going crazy over 'that one guy' is never a good idea. Hey, have you seen his pet rabbit? That thing has better hair than I do."

 

“I doubt that,” Shiraishi says with a smile. He reaches up to touch said hair, then realizes belatedly that that’s kind of weird, and scratches his own head instead before letting his hand fall to his lap. “It, uh, sounds cute, though. Are they laughing? Most of our good joke-tellers aren’t there anymore. I don’t want Shitenhouji to become a team that’s obsessed with winning at all costs.”

 

"Don't worry, don't worry. Kintarou-kun's been picking up the slack, he even makes that horrible brat boyfriend of his crack a smile." Osamu heaves a sigh, and glances at Shiraishi out of the corner of his eye. "We're not going to let them get like Rikkai. I'd rather us lose in the prefecturals before that happens. I mean, we won't, but…you get the idea."

 

“I would, too.” Shiraishi fumbles for the latch on the seat, tilting back a bit, and abruptly tilting back a _lot_ when the seat doesn’t lock properly. He struggles up, yanking it up into place with a laugh. “Maybe if we keep winning, though,” he suggests, “you’ll get a raise and be able to afford a better car.”

 

"I had a better car! I just, uh. Traded it in. Who needs all that, anyway?" 

 

“Did you have a better hat that you traded in too?” Traded it in in this case most likely means “lost in a gambling debt and replaced with the cheapest alternative,” as everyone on the tennis team knows.

 

"My good hat has an autograph on it now. You can't expect me to _wear_ such a piece of art." 

 

“You finally managed to corner Echizen’s father?” Shiraishi guesses.

 

"Listen up," Osamu says, not sounding the slightest bit ashamed, "we all have needs." 

 

Shiraishi laughs, stretching out and resting his arm on the open window. The sun feels good, and it’s only lately that he’s realizing how much time he’d spent _inside_ in the few months that he hadn’t been playing tennis. “Just think, it might be some of your students signing autographs in a few years.” _It could have been you, if you’d gone pro._

 

Osamu sighs wistfully, tells himself not to go there or get started, but--it's an open door, _an open door._ "You could," he idly points out. "Easily. Damn, I'm still sad you never got to play that Yukimura kid, I would've watched that all day."

 

“I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” Shiraishi fiddles a little with the zipper of his shirt, not quite looking at Osamu. “You’re the only adult who doesn’t tell me I should be responsible about my future and choose a lasting career,” he says finally. It costs him something to say even that much, because that’s just the smallest step, even for himself, towards the admission that he’s thought about taking his Bible Tennis to the big leagues.

 

Finally out of the major part of the city, Osamu just rolls his eyes, propping one arm up in the window. "If you do well--and you would--you could play pro for a few years and then sit pretty with a coaching job or even just on your winnings. At least, that's the dream. You could do it, you've got a good enough head on your shoulders, you'd just--" He cuts himself off, shrugging it off before he starts planning out Shiraishi's professional career like he _knows_ he could. Damn it. "But you know--it's all about what you really want to do. Same reason you shouldn't do anything just because someone told you you'd be good at it." 

 

The thought of going pro makes something twist, by equal parts excited and anxious, in Shiraishi’s chest. Going pro sounds like playing tennis without any rules--how is he supposed to know what to do? There’s no blueprint, no instructions. “It sounds...awfully uncertain,” he says carefully, not wanting to dash anyone’s dreams, especially not Osamu’s dreams for _him_. “I’m not sure I’d be that motivated to keep winning if it was just for me, and not for a team.”

 

"It's always uncertain," Osamu admits wryly, "which is why I honestly think you'd be driven insane by the whole thing, even as good as you are." Sucks to admit that, but…yeah, not everyone is him, and Shiraishi definitely _isn't_. "Look, you know if you ever want to go pro, I'd be behind you 100%. I think you'd have a lot more fun just playing in school though, you know?" 

 

Shiraishi sighs, and folds his legs up in front of him. “I’m sure I would,” he admits. “It’s just...all my teachers and my parents and everyone are saying that high school is time to focus only on things that are going to help me in the future--and I don’t think they’re wrong,” he adds quickly. “I was thinking I could just take a year off and learn how to juggle my schedule, but…” _But there’s something about tennis._ “I thought it was just a hobby, for the team. I didn’t think I’d miss it so much. I thought I’d just miss all of you, and I _did_ , I just…”

 

"…You almost sound like you're guilty about it." 

 

Right, eyes on the road, now's not the time to twist around and give Shiraishi a hug. Osamu does, however, get a hand in his hair for a gentle rub. "What part of good teamwork isn't gonna help you in the future? Even just being the assistant coach is giving you some great management skills--see, look, there's lots of way to justify still wanting to be a part of the tennis team if you want. The other thing is that you don't have to, though. You can just hang out and have fun for all I care, because you're a good kid and you deserve a break once in awhile."

 

Shiraishi butts his head against Osamu’s hand thoughtlessly. It would be weird to admit that he’s missed this, too. No one else really touches him casually, and definitely not affectionately. “Once I quit,” he confesses, “I really realized how many of my friends were on the team. But now...I mean, I still talk to Senri, and Kenya is in a couple of my classes, but…” He laughs a little, shrugging, leaning into the touch on his head. “Who would’ve thought that Koharu and Yuuji were so much of the emotional center of us all?”

 

"They're great, those two. Ahh, I miss them, but it's all right, you know they'll come to all of our games," Osamu hums, continuing to give Shiraishi's hair a slow, thorough petting. Yes, he can do this for _hours_. "They'll love to see that you're working with the team again." 

 

“I feel like I abandoned everyone.” He hadn’t meant to say anything that heavy, but he just always feels so _relaxed_ around Osamu. “I know it’s stupid, but I was the captain, right? Maybe things would have been different if we’ve beaten Seigaku.”

 

"If you're going by that logic," Osamu mildly says, "Yuuji and Koharu also abandoned everyone. Hell, Zaizen-kun abandoned everyone by handing the captaincy to someone else. Just because you're the captain in middle school doesn't mean you've got any obligated to keep going in high school."

 

“Yeah.” Coming from anyone else, it wouldn’t make him feel much better. Coming from Osamu… “Except you obviously feel that way, too. Or you would have given the gauntlet to someone else instead of waiting for me to come back.”

 

" _You_ can give it to someone," Osamu archly replies, sparing a glance over at him. " _You're_ the captain that led Shitenhouji to best four in the Nationals two years in a row. What did I do other than make you run around on a court because I didn't want to?" 

 

“Mm. And it has nothing to do with the fact that the first two years after they hired _you_ were the first times in history that we’ve ever even gone to Nationals?” Shiraishi glances at Osamu out of the corner of his eye. “You’re more than you let on.”

 

"I had an amazing set of kids to work with! Literally all I did was make you run around a lot, you'd be surprised how much that works."

 

Shiraishi laughs, and tips his head sideways to rest against Osamu’s shoulder. “What are you going to do with the kids you have now, Samu-chan? Another top four, or all the way to the top?”

 

"Well, they're already better at running," Osamu hums, relaxing back into his seat. "Just from that alone, I'm guessing we're going to win the whole damned thing."

 

“That would be nice,” Shiraishi says wistfully. “Even if you’re dealing with some...large personalities. How’s that whole Echizen-Kintarou thing treating you? Lots of stress?”

 

"…Actually," Osamu says, albeit begrudgingly, "as much as I want to smack them both on a good day…they do a good job of balancing one another out. Kintarou-kun is…shockingly much calmer now." 

 

“At least we finally found something that calms him down. Even if it is…” Shiraishi feels his cheeks heating up slightly. “Is it strange that it’s weird to me to think of him...ah, and Echizen? I mean, Koharu and Yuuji were the same age, but they were _my_ age. The rookies just seem so young.”

 

"Eh, it's just because you knew Kintarou-kun when he was in elementary school. _He's_ another weed," Osamu darkly notes. Just thinking about it makes him want another cigarette. "Gonna be way too tall. What's up with all of you lately?" 

 

“Healthy diet and nutrition,” Shiraishi says promptly, with a self-satisfied grin. “And of course, we don’t smoke.” He pauses, then has to add, “Except Senri. I can’t explain him.”

 

"He's not human. He's a giraffe." 

 

Shiraishi snorts, then takes out his notebook and jots down _Chitose = giraffe (!!! Funny)_ and puts it away again. “Good one, Samu-chan!”

 

"Yeah, I've got a million of them." He's going to leave out the jokes about buying weed off of Chitose, because they're less jokes, more pathetic irony.

 

“I write down most of them. You’re probably the funniest person I know.” That’s high praise, coming from anyone who’s gone to Shitenhouji.

 

"You're adorable. But hey, I'll take the compliment!" A pity they can't win on jokes alone, but damn, they're probably going to win anyway. _That_ feels good.

 

Shiraishi pauses, watching the road for a minute. Then, slightly confused, he says, “I’m not adorable. Everyone says I’m a terror.”

 

Osamu snorts at that. "Maybe with a tennis racquet in your hand. Haven't you ever wondered why so many girls follow you around? Don't say Koharu and Yuuji, they aren't the only reason."

 

Shiraishi blinks. “Don’t girls do that to all boys? I’ve heard about it a _lot_. I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

 

One of these days, Osamu is going to drive right off the road because of this kid. "Kuranosuke-kun…here's the thing. You're what is commonly referred to as 'a cut above.' Girls are into that." 

 

“Eh?” Shiraishi tilts his head, looking up at Osamu from where he’s still leaning on his shoulder. “Do you think I should stop? I don’t want to lead them on.”

 

"There's not really anything for you to stop," Osamu dryly points out. "You're just…well, you know, there's a reason why everyone calls you 'Mr. Perfect.' Don't worry, you're not leading them on, they just really want to date you."

 

“Hmm.” Shiraishi turns that slowly over and over in his mind, thinking about it. “You’ve probably let a lot of girls down in your day. How do you do it without hurting their feelings? I told Watari-kun that I wasn’t interested in seeing her, and she wasn’t very happy.”

 

"Well, if they're really interested, they're never gonna be _happy_ about being let down." Poor kid. It sucks sometimes to be attractive and good at sports, Osamu knows. He gives Shiraishi's hair a sympathetic ruffle. "You've just got to be polite about it. Tell her that you're far too focused on school right now and you just don't think you'd have time to give her the attention she needs, that usually goes over well."

 

“Well, it’s true.” Shiraishi contemplates saying something else--that he doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ be done with the excuses, that he’s sure the gene for attraction and knowing how to deal with romance passed him by somehow--but that’s a little too much to tell a teacher, even one that’s currently ruffling his hair.

 

"Exactly. So just tell her the truth." Osamu's hand slides down to his shoulder, squeezing gently. "It's not a bad thing to not want a girlfriend. Focus on what makes you happy, and if it isn't girls, boys, whatever, then don't focus on them."

 

Usually, it’s tennis. More importantly, it’s playing tennis with his friends, it’s seeing them smile, it’s laughing at jokes with them and getting into adventures with them. “Yeah. I’ll figure it out. What about you, Samu-chan? Is horse racing really all that much fun?”

 

"It takes the edge off, that's for sure," Osamu laughs, his shoulders heaving lightly in a shrug. "Chitose-kun gets it, he likes the numbers game of it. It also helps when you've got a girlfriend who likes horses, you know." 

 

“If you were so good at it,” Shiraishi points out, “and you played that numbers game, wouldn’t you be driving a much nicer car?” An idea occurs to him, and he asks, “Or does losing help take the edge off more?”

 

"I don't lose all the time," Osamu defensively sniffs. "And I told you, who needs a nice car? This one does just fine, keep complaining and I'm gonna start smoking!"

 

Shiraishi laughs, and makes sure that he’s leaning on the pack of cigarettes. That’s just not going to happen. “What does your girlfriend think about you losing all that money? Most girls I know want people to buy them things.”

 

"She's more into buying things for me." He probably shouldn't be so pleased about that. Oh well! "So hey, I'm not gonna complain. She's pretty into the idea of having a kept man and I'm pretty into just being a tennis coach for a living." 

 

“That definitely sounds like you,” Shiraishi agrees. “That’s good, though. At least you aren’t being distracted.” He shifts slightly, a tiny frown creasing his forehead. “What does it really mean to be a kept man? Is she nice to you?”

 

"You're so cute when you're worried, Kuranosuke-kun," Osamu sighs out, slouching down into the seat slightly. "But don't you fret, she's _very_ nice to me. She was an old fan of mine, back when I was even more amazing than I am now." 

 

“A fan?” That’s more than Shiraishi’s ever gotten out of Osamu about what he’d been doing before he came to Shitenhouji. “When was that? Where?”

 

Oh, whoops. He's already said too much. Osamu drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Eh, awhile ago. I was pretty cool coming out of high school, believe it or not." 

 

“Yeah?” Shiraishi smiles to himself, mentally chalking that one up. He’s definitely going to have to tell Kenya, as this makes 500 yen Kenya owes him. “I figured as much.” _But I never saw anything when I looked for you online._ “In tennis?”

 

What the hell, he's already started down this path. Osamu heaves a sigh. "Yeah, well. I had my moments." 

 

Shiraishi hears the reluctance there, and nibbles on his lip. Just because it feels like they’re close--leaning on his shoulder, being occasionally petted, going on a road trip--doesn’t give him the right to ask this kind of thing. However… “Is that why you’re telling me not to do what other people think? Is that why you didn’t go pro?”

 

And now there's no turning back. Osamu groans, flopping his head back against the seat lightly. "I went pro," he petulantly mutters. "For a little bit. I'm telling you not to do what other people think because I don't want you to get all stressed out about something that you use primarily for fun. You've got kind of a one-track mind, Kuranosuke-kun, and I don't want tennis of all things to stress you out." 

 

“I looked you up online,” Shiraishi insists, unfortunately displaying quite a bit of that one-track mind right now. “I didn’t see anything, and you’re too good to lose without getting up in the rankings.”

 

Osamu shoots him a brief, weary look before looking back to the road. "Kurarin," he pointedly begins, "how many times have I told you that all of you brats are running so I don't have to?" 

 

It takes a minute. Then, abruptly, Shiraishi remembers all too well how many times Osamu has “faked” an old injury to get out of a game.

 

He’s quiet for a long few minutes, just watching the road. There’s not too much he can say. What can he do, promise not to run him around the court anymore? That’s insulting, patronizing, and not helpful. “That’s….not fair,” he says at last.

 

"Life's not fair," Osamu says, the cheerfulness in his voice not even close to forced. "But it's okay. Some things are just not meant to be." He shrugs a little. "I can still beat the crap out of all of you, can't I? Well, you know, 'cept for Kintarou-kun."

 

“No one can beat him. Well, maybe Echizen.” Shiraishi isn’t really thinking about that. He’s thinking about Osamu, ten years ago, with his whole pro career ahead of him. “What were you like in high school?”

 

"Obnoxious and tacky, I'm sure." Without a smoking problem, definitely. "Hmm…but a lot like you, actually. I'd practice for hours and hours, even after my coach yelled at me to quit it and go home already."

 

Shiraishi snorts. “So you finally listened to him? Is that why you’re on my--why you’re always after me to loosen up?” He can’t help but think about it, what Osamu would have looked like back then, how bright he would have smiled. What a weird thought. “Did you wear shorts?”

 

"Doesn't everyone when they play tennis for real?" Osamu grouses, swatting at the side of Shiraishi's head. "And no, I never listened to him. I got scouted before I even graduated. In retrospect, I _probably_ should have put more effort into school." 

 

Shiraishi ducks back onto his own side of the car, legs curling up to his chest as he thinks. “Hmm. Shitenhouji’s standards for teachers are pretty low if they don’t even require high school degrees.” Better to say that than to flounder with some way to say how _sorry_ he is, how much he wishes...well. How much he wants to be Osamu’s second chance.

 

"It's different for coaches, I guess," Osamu shrugs off, unconcerned. "And when your girlfriend knows the principal. Hey, don't act all pouty about it, I've long been redeemed after the team _I_ coached got all the way to Nationals--twice!"

 

“We’ll win for you this time.” Funny, that he hadn’t cared until now. “Didn’t you want to be a coach? I mean for real players, not just kids.”

 

"Kinda hard to get your foot in the door there when you didn't get _that_ far in the pro circuit." _And when you sort of turn into a drunk overnight._ "I like teaching kids way more anyway. You guys actually enjoy the game still, and that's the whole point." 

 

The thought of it makes Shiraishi’s stomach churn. To go so far, to be _scouted_ while still in school--and he _knows_ how good Osamu is. Tezuka Kunimitsu and Yukimura Seiichi are tearing up the pro circuit in London, and Shiraishi would rank himself as approximately on their level, or at least close to it, and Osamu usually doesn’t let him take more than three points out of seven. _And that’s with an injury_ , he realizes. How good must he have been before that? “How did it...never mind. Sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about it. I wouldn’t.”

 

"No, no, it's fine. Better for you to know, and to learn from this old idiot's mistakes." Talking about it _does_ suck, but he's not wrong about wanting to make sure Shiraishi didn't do the same dumb thing that he did. "I won the first two tournaments I played in, and then during a practice session, pulled out my knee. That's all it took--doctor said I needed to stay off of it, maybe it would eventually heal up for _light_ exercise, but try telling that to a kid that just wants to win everything." Osamu smiles wryly. "Next tournament I played in a few weeks later, I tore it to pieces in my first match. That was that." 

 

Shiraishi sucks in a breath through his teeth. More than anything, he doesn’t even know what to say, when obviously nothing could make that any better. His teeth worry at his lips, until they’re red and sore, and he takes in a deep, calming breath. “Maybe...you were just really meant to be a coach. You are a _great_ one.”

 

Osamu spares a glance over at him, and just sighs. He'd offer the kid a cigarette--he sure needs one now--but that's not going to work. "Kuranosuke-kun," he gently says, "you're stressing over something that I've figured out and dealt with already. I'm not unhappy and I _do_ think I'm a pretty good coach, so yeah, I think I'm in the right place. Just because I can't play all that much myself doesn't mean I'm not happy to help a bunch of kids go out and kick some ass--because you guys _do_."

 

Shiraishi looks up, and blinks before trying to smile. “You called me Kurarin earlier.”

 

He slowly uncurls himself, kicking his legs out in front of him. “It’s just scary. To think that I...I mean, that someone could spend all of their time working towards something...and then just have it taken away like that.”

 

"That's kind of life, at the risk of sounding _really_ negative. Spend too much time thinking about that, though, and you'll end up…remember how unhappy Chitose-kun was when he first showed up? That's what I'm talking about, you can't get like that, no matter what." Osamu shifts awkwardly, laughing as he adds: "I called you Kurarin to snap you out of that little mindset you get in--but hey, it _is_ less of a mouthful, if you don't mind your coach being cute once in awhile." 

 

“Samu-chan is always cute.” Shiraishi feels his cheeks get pink, and he slumps down a little farther in his seat. It’s just cute. It’s like his little sister, when she does something cute and doesn’t realize it. Same thing. “I get why you’re trying to get us to loosen up now. It’s just...everyone takes it too far sometimes, and I get worried that everything will fall apart.”

 

Always cute. Yeah, right. Osamu just has to reach over and give his head a pat for that. "So long as they come back to the original goal that we've all got in mind, it's not too far. Plus, if they _do_ get to the point of going too far…you're there to bring them all back, right?" 

 

“Yeah. That’s why we’re a good team.” There’s that positivity, that determination he’d had earlier. Shiraishi gives a real smile this time, and leans down to pull up his bag. “I packed some apple slices and tofu, if you want some?”

 

"Do you ever eat like a _real_ human?" Osamu grouses, hunching back over the steering wheel. "Fine, just make sure you feed me with your fingers, that'll make up for some of the indignity of not being able to smoke." 

 

Shiraishi laughs, and pulls out some apple slices. He’d gotten a little fancy in the morning, and caramelized the edges in a bit of brown sugar. “I’ll feed you the whole time as long as you don’t start smoking. An apple slice is much better to have in your mouth,” he says seriously, nudging at Osamu’s lips.

 

Osamu's last protest is a muttering grumble that probably has something to do with _you don't know the joys of nicotine_ before he parts his lips and takes a bite. "Well," he says after chewing and swallowing, and a little huffily at that, "I'll give you that it tastes better." 

 

“My sister helped me,” Shiraishi admits. “She’s really good in the kitchen. But I made the sauce for the tofu.” He’s not _entirely_ useless.

 

"Ahh, how fortunate. You'll be a better housewife than I ever will be." 

 

“That’s because you’d lose the deed to the house in a card game. Open.”

 

"Rude," Osamu says before taking another unabashed bite of food from Shiraishi's fingers. Yeah, okay, he can get used to not smoking in car rides if he gets _fed_. "I like housing too much to do that. I'll just sell this piece of junk car first."

 

“I’ve never seen where you live. Is it as bad as the car?”

 

"Hell no, it's nice! The girlfriend pays for that, she's pretty into visiting me somewhere that she personally enjoys, you know." 

 

Makes sense. Shiraishi digs out another slice of apple, thoughtlessly taking a bite himself before feeding Osamu the rest. “You don’t talk about her much. I’m pretty sure we know the Principal’s wife’s dress size, but I don’t even know your girlfriend’s name. Is she pretty?”

 

"Mmm, she prefers to be a mystery," Osamu says, licking up some of the caramel sticking to his bottom lip. "But Airi-chan is _very_ pretty. She's half-Japanese, half-…hmm, Spanish, I want to say? Anyway, very pretty, she's _always_ traveling, that's why you guys have never met her." 

 

Shiraishi raises his eyebrows, and pops a chunk of tofu into Osamu’s mouth before he can protest. “My father said that men who have girlfriends who won’t meet their friends are men who are unmarried for a reason.”

 

Osamu shoots him a horrified glance before chewing and swallowing. "Your father knows _nothing_ of Airi-chan. I'll invite her to practice some time, you'll see!!"

 

“I look forward to meeting her.” For some reason, the idea of Osamu having a girlfriend, a real one, doesn’t quite sit right with Shiraishi. Maybe it’s the way he talks about her, like an occasional paycheck who doesn’t mind what he does most of his days. For his own part, that’s pretty different from what he’d imagined having a girlfriend to be like, on the occasions he’d imagined it.

 

"That's more like it. Ahh, Airi-chan, I wonder what country you're in right now…" Hell if he knows. Eh, that's fine, he doesn't want to be there, anyway. 

 

Kanagawa is quite a jaunt away, but the ride is surprisingly so _peaceful_ with Shiraishi, even if he isn't allowed to smoke. The sea breeze once they're close is one hell of a relief from the heat of Osaka, and the tournament grounds are full of activity and energy--more than theirs ever are, even upon reaching the prefectural level. 

 

"Don't take this away from me," Osamu warns as he lights up a cigarette the moment he's out of the car. "I need it, just one." 

 

Shiraishi’s fingers itch to snatch it away, but he lets it slide--though he does pointedly walk a couple steps to the side. In all honesty, even that smoke can’t tarnish how good the air smells here, not muggy and gluggy but _fresh_ and cool in comparison to Osaka. This is better rested than he’s felt in a few months, though he doesn’t quite know why. “As long as you don’t bring it into the court, I don’t think they’d like that. You have the tickets, right?” There’s a level of excitement that he hadn’t quite anticipated in the crowd. _Everyone_ wants to see if Rikkai can recover from losing their Three Demons.

 

"Yeah, yeah." Osamu is a little too absorbed in his cigarette for the moment, because nearly four hours of driving really _demands_ it. He exhales a slow breath, shuts his eyes, and takes another long drag. "Time to see if that Kirihara brat can do anything without hanging onto his mama's apron strings. Heh, this is going to be a nightmare to report back to Kaidou-kun."

 

“I’d say it would light a fire in him, but I think he’s got enough of that for all of us,” Shiraishi says, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. Far more important is the way Osamu’s face is sort of _changing_. “Do they really taste that good?” he asks, half-amused, half-appalled, entirely interested. “Because they smell _horrible_.”

 

"Not a taste thing, a chemical thing. They taste horrible, too, but god if I'm not addicted." One last breath, and Osamu tosses the cigarette, crushing it underneath his heel before Shiraishi can think to try it (as if). He's not gonna be _that_ kind of a bad influence. "Right, let's do this. I wonder what Rikkai's doing for a coach this year…"

 

“That’s right, they didn’t have one. Maybe they hired one?” Shiraishi shakes his head, baffled. “I can’t imagine being captain without you there. It sounds crazy to me.” He scans the crowd for any faces he might know, but most of the people attending are much older, or younger. “Not a lot of high schoolers here, hmm. Strange, you’d think they’d want to see who’s going to be going against them next year.”

 

"They already resign themselves around here," Osamu points out after he hands over their tickets, and they make their way into the bleachers. "Everyone immediately assumes the Absolute Kings have this in the bag. To be fair, they probably do, but…eh. Like I said, they're just _excellent_ now, not impenetrable."

 

“If anyone’s impenetrable now…” No, he’s not even going to say it. Yes, they’d poached the captain _and the ace_ from Seigaku, but no one is invincible. Everyone had assumed Rikkai was invincible, and now they no longer call themselves the Reigning Kings. “Can we just sit anywhere?”

 

"Yep, make yourself at home." Osamu leans back, eyebrows raised as he glances up to Shiraishi. "Sounds like you've got yourself some high hopes for our little hick town team." _Good._

 

Shiraishi gives him a guilty little smile. “I just...I know how hard everyone’s been working. I mean, it’s always a game of chance. I just think we could do really well.” It’s “us” again. He’s always been part of it, even if he hadn’t fully comprehended that when he’d left the team for a few months.

 

There are a couple open seats just behind a railing, and Shiraishi tugs Osamu down into one of them, looking around at the crowd a little nervously. “There are a _lot_ of people here.” _We’re usually lucky if we can get all of our parents to come._

 

"It's Rikkai," is all Osamu wryly offers as he flops down. "Everyone's here to watch their straight sets of six-love. Heh, well, in theory." 

 

He straightens up a bit to peer over the railing, and just laughs. "Look, look--it's Miyuki-chan's favorite rival, the little Yukimura girl. She took over the girls team at Rikkai already--you think she's the coach of the boys team, too? The tyrant blood is strong."

 

Shiraishi leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The little thing looks a _lot_ like her older brother, and from the way the players are snapping to on her orders, must act a lot like him, too. “I wish Yukari was that interested in tennis,” he says sadly. “She mostly just cares about boys and her cat. Hm, she’d get along with Echizen.”

 

Osamu shoots him a look. "Don't say that. The last thing I need is another Echibrat supporter." Ah, well, there goes his hope that Rikkai's entirely unguided this year. It would have been nice to find that out, but…alas. "Damn, but I'm glad you were never into the shoulder-jersey thing." 

 

“It doesn’t make much sense to me,” Shiraishi says with a grin. “It’s hot in the summer. I never wear a jacket unless I’m cold. Or the long pants, for that matter. How do you do it with your coat?”

 

"The coat's special, don't question it."

 

The thing about Rikkai's lineup is that it's reminiscent of several years ago--that is, mostly second years, all Nationally ranked of _course_ , but nothing to the level of Rikkai's lineup last year, or the year prior…or _theirs_ this year, if Osamu's going to be frank about it. Yes, having the number one player in the country sitting around and sleeping on their tennis courts on most days feels pretty damn good. 

 

"They might be a little ragtag," Osamu mutters underneath his breath, watching the first call and handshake for doubles two, "but they're _still_ more together than Seigaku or Hyoutei. In the Tokyo prefecturals, I'm guessing Fudoumine is gonna win it." 

 

“They’ve got the confidence and the ability,” Shiraishi agrees, eyes locked on the players trotting to the baseline. “But I’m not sure if they have the leadership. I guess it’ll all shake out to the new captains in the end, won’t it? We might want to keep an eye on Rokkaku, they’re the only others with a returning captain.”

 

The first match speeds by, and Shiraishi is more than preoccupied watching the little yellow ball whizz back and forth at incredible speeds. “Not bad,” he murmurs, though neither of the doubles teams he’s seeing have coordination that gets him to the edge of his seat.

 

"Rokkaku has mostly graduated, though--heh, at least we don't have to worry about Fuji Shuusuke showing up to rain on anyone's parade," Osamu mutters, leaning back when the match proves a boring, 6-1 win for Rikkai. He cares rather little for the doubles teams, honestly. The thing is, even if Shitenhouji lost in both doubles matches, their _singles_ are so good this year that it barely matters…god, that feels good to think about. 

 

“The doubles are decent this year,” Shiraishi allows, looking at the second set of pairs taking the stage. “Have you thought about pairing up Kaidou and Zaizen? An all-rounder and a counter-puncher is a great combination, and they’re definitely on the same wavelength a lot of the time.”

 

"I have. Don't worry, I have," Osamu gleefully says. "But I also want to give Kaidou-kun a chance in singles as necessary--he was overlooked so much last year in that position. Plus, Zaizen-kun can play doubles with anyone, thank _god_." He's trying not to rub his hands together diabolically. "And just _think_ of our singles, no matter what."

 

“Kintarou and Echizen no matter what,” Shiraishi says wistfully. What he wouldn’t have done to have _both_ of them on the team during his year. “And Kaidou’s gotten much better, and Zaizen seems so much more enthusiastic since I started taking away his earbuds...it’s a good lineup, Samu-chan. Your rookies are going to make you proud.”

 

"Be careful about those earbuds, he's gonna walk off the court one day if you keep pissing him off," Osamu warns with a laugh. "He's gotten used to getting his way with _Kaoru_ running the show. Oh, here we go, doubles one--still no Kirihara-kun, huh?"

 

“He’s captain now,” Shiraishi says, leaning forward to concentrate. “He’ll put himself in Singles One. He’s the type.” He’d been that type, once. One loss had been enough to teach him the error of his ways. Team over ego, _always_. “Did you ever play doubles?”

 

"Off and on." Damn, Rikkai's second years are little. Not like Shitenhouji's second years, which all grow like weeds. "Mmnn, I'm better at teaching doubles than doing it, though. You've got an advantage on me there, Kurarin."

 

For some reason, the nickname makes him smile, when it doesn’t even get a reaction coming from someone else. “Doubles is easy if you understand the person you’re playing with. Mm, these two are good, though. They’re _tiny_! Ah, I wasn’t that little when I was their age, was I?” He might sound a little distressed. That’s what he gets for being the oldest one in his year.

 

"You started out kinda little, but now you're nothing but legs and it's stressful," Osamu deadpans, nudging him in the side with his elbow. "None of you should grow anymore, this isn't a game about height. Whoo, those brats are _fast_ though." 

 

“Not as fast as Kenya.” That’s a little wistful, maybe. “I still wouldn’t want to go up against them, not when they both move like that.” 

 

The boys drop a point, and no one shrieks louder than the tiny form of Yukimura Kaede, throwing her headband to the ground in disgust. “That one,” Shiraishi points out, “is going to break bones along with hearts someday.”'

 

"…Do you think her brother coaches _her_ still? Shit, I don't want to deal with that," Osamu sighs, sitting back a little to get a better view of the court. "Honestly, I was hoping he'd just be harassing the high school team still, but these kids have definitely got strategy that Kirihara Akaya can't hand out." 

 

“It’s hard to predict what a Yukimura will do,” Shiraishi agrees, almost sadly. Oh, well. If it were no contest, it wouldn’t be any fun. “At least this will give Kaidou something to get worked up about that isn’t Kirihara himself. I don’t like that kind of rivalry building in my players.”

 

Osamu shoots him an amused look. " _Your_ players, huh? Look at you, getting into this again." 

 

Shiraishi can only shrug. “I didn’t stay away because I wanted to, you know. I just knew that if I got back in, it would be hard for me to juggle everything. And now I’m in Kanagawa while my study group meets, so I guess I was right,” he says without a single hint of regret. 

 

Rikkai takes the match 6-0 despite several dropped points, and Shiraishi has to wonder if some of that was an act.

 

"Mmnn…blame me for being a bad influence if you want, but I've gotta say, you must be having more fun right now than you ever would have if you were at a study group," Osamu lightly notes, reaching over to give Shiraishi's knee a squeeze. "And everyone can use some more fun in their lives."

 

"Singles three, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Kirihara, please head to the court!"

 

"Ho? That's a surprise," Osamu mutters, his fingers kneading Shiraishi's knee a little in his excitement. "Maybe the kid's grown up--"

 

The resounding sound of a slap across the face echoes from Rikkai's side of the court, and Kirihara wobbles while Yukimura Kaede stands scowling and shaking out her hand. 

 

"Rikkai! Enough roughhousing!" the referee snaps.

 

" _Or_ he's ruled by an iron fist and likes it," Osamu quickly settles upon.

 

Shiraishi laughs, watching as Kirihara takes the field with a scowl. “This is going to be the last match,” he says confidently, watching Kirihara’s opponent tremble from nose to knee. “He’s getting a reputation for being terrifying, I think. Maybe trying to make up for his showing in the finals last year?” Osamu’s hand on his knee is warm and good, even if the day is hot.

 

"His showing in the finals last year was terrifying," Osamu points out wryly. "Sometimes, watching the way a person loses can say a lot more about the way that they win. It's for that reason that I'm damned glad our high school division doesn't have to deal with Tezuka-kun or Yukimura-kun anymore." 

 

"One set match! Rikkai's Kirihara to serve!"

 

The first serve is something of a freight train, hard and fast and brutal, and Kirihara's opponent doesn't even _move_. Osamu sits up, his mouth dry. 

 

"15-love!"

 

"30-love!"

 

"40-love!" 

 

"Game, Kirihara!"

 

"Damn," Osamu breathes. " _Damn._ Someone's been working over the winter." And the kid was good to begin with, fuck.

 

Shiraishi watches, his heart sinking when he sees ace after return ace streak by at something quickly approaching the speed of sound. “I’m just glad we don’t have him on our team,” he says honestly. “I’d rather have a team of losers than a team of people that can’t have fun playing tennis. Look at that poor guy, he’s too scared to even move.”

 

There might be a little bit of scorn when he talks about Kirihara’s opponent. It’s just a _tennis ball_ , after all. If he’s not good enough to not get hit, he really shouldn’t be playing at all. Getting hit with tennis balls is kind of something you have to accept when you’re a tennis player.

 

"You've missed the scariest part, Kurarin," Osamu mutters, leaning back onto one hand with a sigh. "Just look at Kirihara-kun, _he's_ definitely having fun."

 

"Kirihara, four games to love!"

 

"Always win, always win, Rikkaidai!"

 

"There they go. Damn, they do have the best cheers, why do our cheers suck?" Osamu complains. 

 

“Our cheers don’t suck! Some of them are really funny!” Shiraishi scratches his head, frowning. “I just usually forget those, so we stick to the don-don don-don-don Shitenhouji one.”

 

"That's why they suck," Osamu sighs. "Because we forget the funny ones." 

 

"5 games to love!"

 

Osamu snorts. "He's going to set another tournament record. What a brat, we can't tell Kaidou-kun about this part."

 

“I’d say it would give him something to fight for, but that’s never really been something he lacked,” Shiraishi muses, just as the referee calls it, “Six games to love! Game and match, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!”

 

From the general squealing and yelling from the dugout, Shiraishi gathers that Osamu isn’t entirely wrong about Kirihara setting a new tournament record. “Ah, well. At least we know Kaidou will have a good game to play if we can make it that far.” He stands, stretching out, and catches sight of a man vending soybeans. “Ah, sir! Over here, please!” Somewhere in his pockets is a 500 yen coin. “Want one, Samu-chan? For the drive home?”

 

"Sure, it's the least you can do for not allowing me to smoke," Osamu says with a stretch of his own, sparing a last glance down to the courts. Yeah, he's going to leave out a few details out for Kaidou. Maybe tell Zaizen instead, and he can manipulate it into a more positive training regime that doesn't have anything to do with 'must-defeat-our-number-one-rival.' 

 

A couple tubes of edamame in his pocket, there’s plenty that Shiraishi wants to do for his team on the ride home. Make up some new training regimens, maybe, or talk about doubles lineups. The doors of Osamu’s car creak open, and he slides inside with a grin, popping open one of the tubes. “Do you get as charged up as I do watching all that? Or is it easy for you these days, old man?”

 

"If it didn't do it for me, I wouldn't be coaching a bunch of nutty kids," Osamu points out with a laugh, throwing himself into the driver's seat and slamming the door shut. "You brought that clipboard of yours, didn't you? Get it out, we'll talk about lineups on the way back and how to deal with Rikkai's _new_ evil captain."

 

Shiraishi is only too ready to get out his clipboard, popping a few beans into his mouth as his mind buzzes with racquets and percentages. “It’s not way too early to make lineups, is it?” he asks, nearly bouncing with energy. “I mean, lineups to go against Rikkai, but I suppose we can use them for other games as well. Shishigaku won’t be too long.”

 

"Shishigaku is kind of a least concern this year," Osamu gleefully says, peeling out of the parking lot. "But yeah, we can use similar line-ups on them, test them out, see how the team works out with them. Heh, Higa's out of the running this year, too."

 

“So is everyone that relied soley on third-years,” Shiraishi says, very tactfully from saying anything about Seigaku in particular. Good luck to that Momoshiro. “Maybe we can set up a practice match with Shishigaku, crush them a little. Senri would like that.”

 

"Boy wouldn't he," Osamu agrees, contemplative. "We'll have to think about that one. They can be a little combative with us, considering how many times we've been them now, and having kids like Echizen-kun on our team won't make that any easier. He's not the most gentlemanly of opponents, know what I mean?" 

 

“Senri would probably like that, too,” Shiraishi says fondly. Getting onto the highway always feels good, even in Osamu’s little dinky car, even as everyone passes them in a flurry of honking horns. “Kaidou doesn’t seem like the type to take combativeness against his team lying down. You think you can trust him without anyone to pull him back? I doubt Zaizen will be ready every time he jumps.”

 

Osamu gives him a sideways look. "The look I just gave you is what Zaizen-kun gives Kaidou-kun on a daily basis. You know how Koharu-chan has Yuuji-kun around his little finger? Same damn thing, in and out of tennis."

 

“Ah, young love.” Shiraishi hopes he sounds like something of an expert.

 

Osamu strangles down a laugh. "Yeah. More like married with children already, but, you know, close enough." That rabbit is their kid, no doubt about it.

 

“Really? Huh.” Shiraishi frowns a little, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve read in my psychology books that the first love rarely lasts, but they all seem so happy. It’s hard to imagine they wouldn’t be like that forever. Ah, I’m probably just being naive,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 

"Mm, no, you're not wrong. They're all in middle school, after all, but sometimes, you can just kinda look at a couple and think…yeah, that's gonna last for awhile." Osamu smiles wryly. "Especially Koharu-chan and Yuuji-kun. Those two are a match made in…well, somewhere."

 

“I just can’t imagine either of them with anyone else.”  Shiraishi looks over, and asks calmly, “Does your car usually run that hot, by the way?”

 

Osamu glances down. "Huh. Nope. Maybe it's just mad at the weather." Surely this piece of junk is sentient enough to function that way.

 

“Uh huh.” Shiraishi does his best not to say anything else, he _really_ does. Nervously, he chews on his last few soybeans, eyes glued to the temperature gauge as if his gaze will help to threaten it downwards, which doesn’t appear to be working.

 

When glaring doesn't work, and the temperature guage keeps climbing, Osamu just heaves a sigh of defeat. "It was only a matter of time," he begrudgingly mutters, turning on his blinker and pulling over onto the shoulder. Damn. It's too hot for this, and he's really not interested in having to buy _another_ car if this one blows up…which seems likely. "Airi-chan's gonna yell at me when she finds out about this."

 

Shiraishi blinks. “It’s not your fault, is it? Here, pop the hood open,” he says, unlocking his door and rolling up his sleeves.

 

"It's never my fault, but she _does_ like to yell," Osamu huffs, though his eyebrows climb at Shiraishi's reactions. "What the hell do you know about cars?" 

 

“It seems like the kind of thing it would be good to know, doesn’t it?” Shiraishi asks, as if that makes sense. He squats down in front of the car, peering underneath just to make sure nothing is hanging or leaking from a bad place, then carefully lifts the hood, props it up, and steps back as white smoke billows out towards him.

 

It takes a minute for it to clear, and a lot longer before he’s willing to lean over the hot surface. Fortunately, with the way this car is designed, it’s pretty easy to see the issue. “Samu-chan?” he calls, raking a hand back through his hair. “I know it’s a long shot, but do you have either duct tape or a pair of women’s stockings in there?”

 

"At least I'm given options," Osamu mutters, flopping backwards into the meager 'backseat' to dig around. Right--stockings, that'll work. He grabs a pair from who _knows_ when, and climbs out of the car, wryly thinking that any high school girl would be fanning herself senseless over the sight Shiraishi makes right now. Damn, the kid is missing out on a lot of opportunities. "Don't kill yourself trying to fix this piece of junk, you're way more valuable." 

 

Shiraishi grins at him, and takes the stockings, pointedly looking down at Osamu’s legs. “Nice color. Not sure if they’re really your size, though.” He should have _known_ Osamu was more likely to have pantyhose than to have duct tape. 

 

He takes off his outer shirt, tossing it in the open window of the passenger’s seat to avoid getting oil on it. Working carefully to avoid getting burned, he identifies the broken belt, doubles up with pantyhose, and ties it in the tightest knot he’d ever learned how to make, then doubles up on that. “The problem,” he explains, wiping at his forehead with the back of one hand, “is that your radiator overheated--it’s run dry, do you have any water or coolant left over?--and the heat frayed the belt here. We can probably get to a garage, if you have something to put in the radiator. _Not_ juice.”

 

"Not juice," Osamu echoes tiredly, shaking his head. "Looks like we're out of luck, then. I'll just…ugh, I'll call a tow truck and we'll take the train back, I'm done with this piece of junk, anyway," he grumbles, taking his hat off to rake a hand back through his hair. "More importantly, is there anything you _don't_ know how to do? What's your mind made of, anyway?" 

 

“Hm?” Shiraishi blinks, and tries to surreptitiously rub some of the oil on his hand onto the bark of a nearby tree instead of getting it all over himself. “My uncle has a shop. I thought it would be a good thing to learn, so I go over and help him sometimes. You really don’t have _any_ water? It’s the most cleansing thing you can drink, you know.”

 

"If you get on me about my health right now, I'm gonna take a picture of you and send it to Koharu," Osamu flatly threatens as he fishes out his cellphone with a sigh. 

 

Shiraishi shrugs, and throws a V in the air for good measure alongside his usual picture-smile. “Why, does he like cars?”

 

Osamu offers him a wry stare for a moment before giving in and taking a picture. Blackmail material for later, sure. "No, he likes greasy men. At any rate, I'm getting this piece of crap towed."

 

Shiraishi sighs. “Sorry I couldn’t fix it better. Maybe we could flag someone down and ask if they have water?”

 

"My question is how long do you want to sit in the heat with a screwed up car."

 

“Fair.” Shiraishi shrugs, and grabs his bag and shirt out of the car. “I hope your phone gets service out here. Mine’s an Osaka-only plan. It drives Zaizen crazy.” Thanks to his mother, who just won’t listen about what cell phone service is actually used for.

 

Now isn't the time to mention that his girlfriend definitely pays for his cellphone plan and therefore, it's damn nice. "That _would_ drive Zaizen-kun nuts," Osamu agrees, sighing as he dials the number for that silly roadside plan that he was _so_ sure Airi-chan was wasting money on… 

 

An hour later, sweaty, tired, and slightly put out, they find themselves at the train station, and Osamu _does_ lament the loss of that extra gambling money he had stashed away, now spent buying train tickets. Ah, well. There are some days when it just can't be helped. "Aren't you happy, Kurarin? Now I absolutely _can't_ smoke on the way home." 

 

Shiraishi gives him an almost angelic smile, putting an arm around him and squeezing as they board the shinkansen. “You wouldn’t have anyway, Samu-chan. You’re too nice about respecting the health of my young lungs for that.”

 

"…I am awfully nice about that," Osamu sighs in agreement, flopping down and leaning his head against Shiraishi's shoulder. "You're awfully good at making me feel guilty even when I'm not smoking."

 

The shinkansen seats are nice, and Shiraishi makes sure to tuck his ticket into an easily-accessible pocket, for later when the nice lady will come around and check them all. “You should feel virtuous for that. I really _do_ appreciate it, you know.” 

 

He thinks vaguely about fishing out more of his home-packed snacks, but the train starts moving, and Osamu is really comfortable flopped against him. It’s a lot easier to just rest his head on Osamu’s in turn.

 

"Maybe," Osamu eventually says, struggling not to yawn, but Shiraishi makes an excellent pillow, "we should talk about tennis tactics on _Monday_ , when we've had time to mull them over properly." 

 

“That sounds good.” Better is how Osamu feels, like something comforting and reassuring, and it doesn’t seem to matter that Shiraishi has never been able to fall asleep on someone’s shoulder before.

 


	4. Shiraishi & Osamu

If anything, Shiraishi had considered hanging out with the tennis club to be good for him. It’s making him more driven, more passionate again, and he cares a hell of a lot more about getting out of bed in the morning. It’s a little embarrassing; he’d been so sure that he’d been motivated before. There’s a difference, it seems, between being willing to wake up with his alarm at 6 am for health exercises and breakfast, and between getting himself up at 5am to do an extra hour of stamina exercises in his room. The thought of tennis is never far from his mind, and he can’t help but like the look on the faces of his classmates when he first goes to school with the bandages wrapped around his left arm once more. Twice in the hallway, he hears the whisper, “ _he’s back!”_

 

It’s because tennis isn’t far from his mind, he tells himself, that Osamu isn’t, either. He _thinks_ that’s normal. After all, they’re more on the same level now, and have been spending a lot more time together. It’s only natural that he’d be thinking about Osamu--what they’ll be doing to train up the team, how Osamu will react to his latest test scores, a new move he wants to run by Osamu, how Osamu looks when he smiles just for Shiraishi.

 

That’s normal, he tells himself, and knows it’s a lie.

 

The dreams start out normal. Scary, but normal. Just because he’s never had wet dreams himself before doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what they are. Just his mind and body getting out some unspent hormones, he knows, and tries to think that way when he frantically works laundry into his morning schedule--daily, to his dismay. 

 

But then the dreams change, and that’s not right at all. That’s the kind of thing he needs to talk to someone about, and the only person that would take it without batting an eyelash is the one featuring so prominently. At least Chitose is a good second choice, even if he’s harder to find these days. That’s how Shiraishi winds up outside Chitose’s door for three straight hours, doing his homework on the hallway floor before Chitose finally gets home. “Ah, Senri! Do you have a minute? You’re _soaked_ , why were you out in this rain?”

 

"…Feeding the cats."

 

It sounds less logical now that Shiraishi is sitting outside of his door with that familiar, stressed look on his face. Obviously, he doesn't think that he looks stressed, but Chitose can see it a mile away. He unlocks his dorm room, and refrains from shaking out his hair like a wet animal until he's actually a few steps into the room. "Sorry, Kura. You could've called…mm, nope, left my phone here. Anyway, in the _future_." 

 

“I did. Four times.” Shiraishi smiles, packing his papers into his backpack and zipping it securely up. “It’s fine, I got lots of work done.” He casts about the room, finally sighting a towel and starting to rub it over Chitose’s hair. “You’ll catch a cold, aren’t you freezing?”

 

"Not really," Chitose hums, flopping back down into a solitary chair, tilting his head back into Shiraishi's hands with a sigh. "After awhile, the cold feels good. Come on, Mom, don't stress over me. You obviously wanted to talk about something." 

 

Shiraishi looks back at the door (always does, even though he’s a little bit compulsive about locking private doors) before lowering his voice. “Are you available for advice on...on a sort of a sex thing?”

 

Chitose blinks slow and even, trying very hard not to look the slightest bit surprised. _From you, Kura? Really?_ "I'm not sure how much help I'll be," he honestly confesses, giving his hair another shake. "But I can try. Let's hear it." 

 

“It’s you or Kenya,” Shiraishi admits, “and I don’t want...I don’t want him to think about me differently. I trust you to know this kind of thing.” He scratches his head, and sits on the floor next to Chitose’s chair, leaning his head against Chitose’s thigh. “I finally--I figured out--hey,” he says, switching to the most casual tone he can manage, “do you ever have thoughts and feelings--say, dreams--that are just--I don’t know why I would _think_ something like that, it’s not very nice, I _think_ I’m a nice person--”

 

Chitose pauses, then exhales a slow sigh, reaching down to run a hand through Shiraishi's hair. "Why don't you just tell me what it is?" he lightly suggests. "I have a lot of weird dreams, but they usually don't mean much, you know?" 

 

Shiraishi turns to look up at him, confused and frustrated with himself. “Why would I dream about pushing someone against a wall? Someone that I--I mean, I think I _like_? I’m not used to liking anyone, Senri. This is awful.”

 

"Ah." The problem with Shiraishi is that he's _so_ cute. With anyone else, Chitose would have probably laughed, but in this case, a sympathetic petting is in order. "Kura…a lot of people like it when you shove them against things--assuming other things follow. Did you kiss them? This is supposed to be a sex conversation, so I'm assuming you did." 

 

Shiraishi flushes a slow, dark red. “I...yeah. And there was a _lot_ of eye contact. And...hands. And other...” Maybe he can swallow his own tongue. “But why would anyone like that? It sounds rude. Isn’t that something you do in a fight?”

 

"Kura," Chitose gently begins, sliding a hand down to give his shoulder a squeeze, "a lot of people really like it. Just because you're being pushy doesn't mean that it's not affectionate. It's all in the way you do it; it's not like you're trying to hurt them." 

 

It’s hard to think of Osamu enjoying him being _pushy_. Shiraishi grimaces. “I don’t think he’d like that. I just wish--in the dreams, it’s always kind of... _really_ good.”

 

 _He_. Uh huh. Chitose's eyebrows raise. "Care to tell me who he is? I'll probably be able to give you a better gauge about whether they'd like it or not." 

 

Shiraishi laughs nervously, and reaches up to squeeze Chitose’s hand. “It doesn’t matter, nothing’s going to happen. There’s...reasons. A gap. I mean, I’m busy with school, he’s busy too...”

 

"Kura." Chitose leans down, his expression wry. "Even if you don't do anything about it, it's not gonna go away. You're at least allowed to complain about how you can't hook up with him, you know." 

 

“You’re allowed to complain, too,” Shiraishi says quietly, looking up and meeting Chitose’s eyes. “But you never do.”

 

"Yeah, well. This isn't a conversation about me," Chitose lightly points out, giving Shiraishi's hair a gentle tug. "Do you want me to play a guessing game about who it is? I'm not into that." 

 

The flush is back, and Shiraishi looks down, butting his head against Chitose’s hand. “Samu-chan,” he mutters, face hot, and draws his knees up to his chest. “I don’t know why.” Except that he can think of a dozen, a hundred reasons why. All he doesn’t know why is why it’s taken his body this long to kick into gear about the whole thing.

 

Sounds about right.

 

Chitose slides out of his chair and flops down to the floor, immediately wrapping all four limbs around Shiraishi to tug him closer. "He _is_ hot," he says, unfazed, slowly kneading his hands into Shiraishi's shoulders. "And you two do get along awfully well. You could give it a shot, he's not your teacher anymore." 

 

Shiraishi blinks, snuggling back immediately against the long, lean bulk of Chitose. “Give it a shot? Ah, I wasn’t even thinking that, it’s not the kind of thing that works out. I might be new to this, but I know that much.” _Not like two boys who obviously adore each other that had a tragic accident and just need to pick up the phone,_ he thinks pointedly, but would never say aloud.

 

"How is it not the thing that works out?" Chitose sets his chin atop Shiraishi's head, contemplating. "Honestly, I think he'd like it if you just went up to him and pushed him into a wall and kissed him. I mean, obviously, you should do it behind a locked door, and you'd have to be careful about no one else finding out…but you could have a lot of fun." 

 

“Sex is supposed to be fun.” Shiraishi says it as though sounding out the foreign concept, analyzing it, trying to force it to make sense. He can think of other complaints, but all of them boil down to two things: age, and status. “He’s _not_ my teacher,” he acknowledges slowly, frowning. “And...hmm. I mean, if he doesn’t want to...would he be angry? Most men like women, I think.”

 

"He likes men." Maaaybe he offered that conclusion a bit too quickly, but oh well. Chitose knows he's not wrong. "Just a feeling I got from him," he offers as a vague explanation. "Either way, though, I don't think he'd be mad. That girlfriend thing is a lie, and he's _really_ fond of you." 

 

Shiraishi’s eyes are a little startled, a little wild. “I...I didn’t even consider doing anything. You really think he wouldn’t be angry with me? I mean--maybe if I asked him politely, that would be best, and then he can refuse politely, and we can still be friends. That’s _important_.”

 

"…If you ask politely, he's just gonna laugh it off," Chitose wryly points out. "How many times has Koharu asked him out on a date? The only way he's gonna know that you really want to do something is if you just go ahead and…well, go for it."

 

Shiraishi stands, squeezing Chitose’s shoulder. “I probably won’t,” he says with a shrug and a smile, “but I appreciate the advice.” He pauses, then asks, “Could you push me against the wall? The right way? Just in case...you know, for some day.”

 

God, Shiraishi is _cute_. Chitose wonders if he knows--doubts that he knows--and gives him a reassuring little pat to one shoulder. "Sure, Kura. You can practice on me, too, if you want. I can tell you how much is too much and all of that." 

 

That’s a relief. Shiraishi arranges himself the proper distance in front of the wall after making certain there are no outstanding pins, studs, or stickers. “This is about where it usually is in the dreams,” he says, and attempts to stand in a relaxed way. “And then I--I just kind of...do you want me to describe it, or do you know the kind of thing I mean? Is this really normal?”

 

Chitose _almost_ feels guilty about this, but not really. "Trust me," he says, climbing to his feet in one easy stretch. "I've got it." 

 

He honestly does wish there was more of a rush when he catches Shiraishi by the shoulder and shoves him back, his height making it easy to loom over him and press close. About the same height, blond, and a really good tennis player--it _should_ line up, but nope. What a shame. "You _could_ also grab him here," he absently suggests, sliding both down to Shiraishi's hips, "and kind of lift him when you push him around. Gets the point across."

 

“I’m sure it does,” Shiraishi gasps, a surge of adrenaline the closest he’s felt to that arousal that grabs and shakes him in his dreams, leaving him weak-kneed when he sees Osamu stretch or gets a whiff of his aftershave. “I think the hip thing seems a little forward, don’t you? I mean, if he doesn’t want me, that’s basically sexual assault.” Shiraishi takes note of hand placement, and nods, switching their positions and pushing Chitose up against the wall by the front of his jacket. “That’s how I do it. When I’m asleep.” 

 

Except...in the dreams, he’s hard and aching and about to die of hunger for the man against the wall. Now, he’s thinking about foot placement.

 

Chitose exhales an easy laugh, sinking back into the wall. "He'll like that," he reassures Shiraishi with a grin, slouching down to rest his forehead against Shiraishi's. "The hip thing, the shoving thing…it's you, so he'll like it. He _really_ likes you, Kura. You're his favorite." 

 

Shiraishi takes a deep breath. “I’m still not sure if I’ll do it,” he warns, but he’s pretty sure he will. After all, the worst that can happen...it’s hard to imagine anything being _that_ bad with Osamu. Chitose’s right; Koharu asks him out every other week, and they’re still highly friendly. “Thanks, Senri. I’ll let you know if it happens.” He doesn’t need to ask for Chitose’s silence, which is a really comforting thing to know.

 

"Mm. Just remember," Chitose reassures him, "you're a _catch_ , Kura. If he says no, it's _his_ bad taste."

 

“And if he says yes,” Shiraishi points out with a grin, “then Ecstasy!” Nevertheless he grips Chitose’s arm in gratitude, trotting out the door to go find his old coach before he loses his nerves.

 

It isn’t hard to find him. Osamu is always either in the clubhouse, on the courts, or at home. It’s a lot less to do with his work ethic than the fact that his only job is tennis advisor, and Shiraishi doesn’t bother knocking before entering, hanging his racquet bag neatly on its hook. “Hey, Coach. The brats run you ragged yet today?” He can still talk to Osamu without seizing up, at least, the way Kenya does around pretty girls. That just seems _inconvenient_.

 

"Always," is the prompt, albeit unfazed response when Osamu thinks back to the number of bruises he has courtesy of Kintarou bodychecking him alone. "But, eh, they're getting better, so it's worth it." 

 

He leans back from where he's seated at the one table in the clubhouse, shutting his one, solitary notebook of team stats. Most of it's in his head, but eh, occasionally it's good to keep a few notes. "You here to practice again? I warned you not to work too hard, Kurarin." 

 

The nickname sends a rush of heat through Shiraishi’s body, and he smiles, scratching the back of his neck. Damn, Chitose and he hadn’t covered what to do in case Osamu was sitting down. No, stupid, don’t even _think_ about doing that--it had all seemed so easy when he was talking with Chitose, but this is _Osamu_ , his _coach_ , his _mentor_...

 

_And why not?_

 

“Just overthinking things again,” Shiraishi says honestly. “I figured you might be willing to run me around until I fell down.”

 

Osamu laughs at that, pushing away from the table with an easy stretch. "That sounds like working too hard," he points out. "But if you really need to work something out of your system, I guess it's fine. Or you could just tell me like a normal person, and _not_ make this old man move, too." 

 

Shiraishi balks--discussion is _not_ what he really wants--but chides himself for impatience. He’s waited this long, he can wait for an opening, he tells his overexcited nerves. “You want me to be more impetuous, right? To trust my instincts? I’ve been...thinking about things, and I’m not sure...when are instincts wrong?”

 

"…Where's this coming from, Kurarin?" Osamu wryly asks, leaning back against the table and folding his arms over his chest. "Sure, I've been wanting you to trust your instincts more, but…it's honestly all just a situational thing. There's no way to predict when that instinct's gonna be wrong." 

 

“Because it’s all right to make mistakes,” Shiraishi echoes softly, remembering previous talks. Hesitantly, he sits on the edge of the table, legs swinging gently. He can’t help but remember the pantyhose in Osamu’s car, the wistful tone in his voice when he’d talked about his girlfriend, and he has a moment of misgiving. “And people--forgive others for mistakes. Right?”

 

It's a rare day when Osamu honestly has no idea where a conversation is going…but this is apparently one of them. It almost sounds like Shiraishi hit a tennis ball through the window of his car, but damn, there's no way that's it. He _just_ got that new car the other day. "Kurarin," he wearily says, "you're gonna have to give me a hint here about what this is about."

 

“Love.” Oh, that sounds really terribly awkward in his mouth, and Shiraishi wants to clamp his hand over it in embarrassment. He can’t deny that it’s what he _means_ , what he’s been too afraid to tell himself he means, but at the same time...ah, dammit. “If I...if I made a mistake. But it was all in good faith, do you think...it would be okay? Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up--”

 

Osamu makes a valiant effort not to stare, and only does so by blinking rapidly. "Ah. Well. See, Kurarin, I'm probably the worst one to ask about this kind of thing," he tries, shrugging helplessly. It's one thing if it's Koharu--it's another thing, even, if it's awkward, shy Kaidou who still hasn't quite warmed up to him. With Shiraishi and _love advice_ \--there's a disconnect that makes him feel a dozen different kinds of…

 

_No, we're not going there._

 

"I do think," Osamu attempts all the same, "that if something's done with good intentions, then it's usually still okay. Especially if you thought it was okay. Does that help at all? Ah, I'm bad at this, I warned you." 

 

A strange calmness, like before a huge game, settles over Shiraishi, and he smiles. “Yeah. That really does help. Thanks, Samu-chan.”

 

Then he picks Osamu up by the lapels of his big tan coat (too easy, he should eat more calories) and shoves him firmly against the wall, leaning forward in a burst of courage before he remembers his sanity, heart thudding out of his throat, mouth dry, fingers clenched in familiar, worn fabric as he presses their lips together.

 

It actually takes a moment before what's happening clicks in Osamu's brain, and that's…troublesome? Good? Not sure. 

 

The problem with _that_ , mainly, is that his first, instinctive response is to lurch up and kiss back. Shit. He can't exactly take that back, not when Shiraishi's strong for a kid, and his own heart is suddenly thudding too hard in his chest, and stupid, stupid instinct has gotten him here and that's pretty hard to explain away. 

 

He _shouldn't_ be so content to go with this, though, and he knows that. 

 

"Kurarin--" Osamu swallows hard when he finally gets a hand between them, grabbing at Shiraishi's shoulder, pushing him back. "Bad idea," he manages. "First, take a moment to think about how gross and old I am." 

 

“No.” Shiraishi shakes his head, licking dry lips, and doesn’t step back or let go. He doesn’t step any closer, maintaining what he thinks is something like a respectful distance under the circumstances, but his grips is firm no matter how hard his pulse pounds in his ears. “If--if you don’t want to that’s _fine_ , but I...I _definitely_ know what I want.” There’s a naked hunger in his eyes that he doesn’t bother to hide, everything he’s wanted for so long now under his hands.

 

Shit, the old and gross thing _usually_ works with kids. Apparently, Shiraishi thinks too much, and that's unfortunate. "It's a bad idea," Osamu repeats instead, and sucks in a slow breath through his nose. "You're a kid. You don't--you could have your pick of anyone." 

 

Osamu tries, very adamantly, not to think about how he still has that stupid picture of Shiraishi fixing his car (shirtless) on his phone. He's really a terrible person, god _dammit_. 

 

“Yeah. I hope so.” Shiraishi steps tentatively forward, and one hand comes up to cup Osamu’s cheek. It’s prickly and warm, the way Shiraishi remembers from when they’d rested against each other on the train on the way home, and he exhales slowly, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “You’re my pick. If...if I’m not yours, just tell me. I can accept consequences, I swear, I just--I’d never forgive myself for not going for it when I _finally_ started....” He swallows again, looking down. “I don’t _feel_ this way. Except for you. Not for anyone. Never.”

 

"You're 16," Osamu feels the need to point out again, somewhat desperately. "Seriously, Kurarin--when I was 16, I was…it's not like I had really looked at that many people, either, so…" 

 

Except that he _knows_ Shiraishi is different, because he's heard all of his tales of woe about girls, and how he doesn't care about them, or boys either, or--anything about relationships or sex. In that sense, it's sort of an honor, but at the same time--nope, this is such a bad idea, _why_ is he leaning into Shiraishi's hand, fuck, someone just shoot him now. 

 

"You," Osamu says, "need to think this through more. Do you know how much trouble you could get into? Do you know how old I am? I try to make it obvious that I'm rickety and ready to die, you know."

 

Shiraishi shoots him a dirty look. “You’re not even thirty,” he chides, and his breath catches at the way Osamu leans into his hand. “Just...” He tries to think of words, but it’s _not_ that easy when this is important, when it’s _huge_ , when this could be the thing that changes his whole life, both of their lives. 

 

“If you don’t want me,” he says again, “it’s fine, Samu-chan, it’s _fine_ , I know I’m not--I don’t know anything about anything, I’d probably have to ask you how to do everything, I’m not even really all that sure what a kokeshi doll is--but don’t try to tell me I _don’t want you_.” He takes a deep breath, and leans forward to kiss Osamu again, lips softly lingering, sending tingles through his entire body until he swears he’s melting.

 

 _Where did this even come from_ is the desperate though that washes through Osamu's brain…and that's about the last of it, before instinct pops back in and he _has_ to kiss back.

 

Damn it, but he's the worst. He should feel horrible about this (he feels remotely guilty, but that's not the same), and he should know when to stop. It's hard, though, when Shiraishi's the one grabbing him and starting everything. It's even worse when heat flushes through Osamu's nerves and reflex, more than instinct, makes him sag back against the wall and grab at Shiraishi's uniform to tug him in closer. 

 

"I'm not," Osamu mutters underneath his breath, shutting his eyes, "telling you that. I'm telling you to _think this through_." 

 

“Samu-chan,” Shiraishi whispers, stealing another kiss before pulling back, not holding any less tightly, not grabbing any less urgently, “think about who you’re talking to here. I thought about six ways to make my breakfast today before I settled on the same thing I eat every day. You’re...you’re _all_ I think about.”

 

Osamu's laugh is decidedly nervous at that. "You, ah, sure know how to flatter someone." _And leave them stressed out about expectations tenfold_. "Kurarin," he tries one more time, telling himself to unwind his fingers from Shiraishi's shirt because he's being gross about it, but finding himself unable to, "if this were a thing--you know we can't tell anyone--right?" 

 

Shiraishi’s heart leaps, and his breath quickens. He nods, too fast, and says, “I know. I _wouldn’t_. You have a reputation, you have a job, I’d never do anything to endanger your work.” _And that means you don’t hate the idea of kissing me_ , which is a giddy thrill that shocks down his spine, the way winning feels. “Just...tell me.”

 

"It's--god, Kurarin, it's not about me," Osamu laughs off, letting his head flop back against the wall behind him. "It's about _you._ You're still a kid, you really can't afford to have anything get in your way--especially…especially if you're really trying to play tennis again." _We haven't even had this part of the conversation, but it feels like we have._ "You could go pro, you know." It still feels more comfortable bringing this up, rather than being stuck talking about _relationships_. 

 

That’s the first prickle of unease back, and Shiraishi drops his hands down--fine, if Osamu’s going to be that way, he’ll just do what Chitose had advised him, and tugs Osamu forward before grabbing his hips, pressing him up against the wall that way and holding him there, closer now, more _urgent_. “You’re special to me,” he says, voice a little shaky, but intent. Every stray hair on Osamu’s chin looks like it needs to be kissed, his lips are a little pink and swollen, his lashes are so _long_ it’s obscene. “This isn’t just me wanting you to entertain me until I get bored, Samu-chan. I want _you_.”

 

"Ah." That's his breath hitching, because…well. Who would expect this out of sweet, good-natured Shiraishi, who captains a team like a mother hen would, who fucking took in a _beetle_ from the cold? Osamu feels himself swallow hard again, his lips parting as his hands unconsciously curl against Shiraishi's chest. _The problem_ , he desperately thinks, _is that when you act like this, 'entertaining' you wouldn't be such a bad thing at all._ "Got it." 

 

He pauses again, needing a chance to think about breathing again. "I'm not…saying _no_." 

 

That’s the lob into the air, but not the point set, not yet. Shiraishi’s eyes are direct, and he steps forward, until they’re less than a few inches apart, close enough that he can feel Osamu’s breath. Deliberately, he moves one of his hands from Osamu’s hips to his heart, pressing, feeling the beat there. He isn’t entirely sure _why_ it’s so important, but the steady thud is reassuring. “Say yes, then. Or--we don’t have to, if you want me to stop I’ll stop, I’ll never do it again, I’m _sorry_ \--” 

 

Shocking how fast his determination can crumble to nothingness if he lets it. Shiraishi gulps in a breath and gets himself under control, steeling his nerves. No, he can _do this_ , he can stick it out. “B-but if you...if you want to try it. I want...everything.”

 

The problem, of course, is that this seems like a mess either way. 

 

Osamu sucks in a breath that's obviously jittery and anxious, and he quickly attempts to piece together his options. Say no, and he's a fucking liar, first and foremost. Say no, and he's not just a liar, but he's crushing Shiraishi and he's probably never going to see the kid again, no matter _what_ he says about it being okay. 

 

Say yes, and he's condemning them both to a disaster ten times over.

 

"Yeah." Osamu tells himself to shut up. It doesn't work. "I mean…god, this is a bad idea," he laughs, shaky and breathless. "But what the hell. Let's give it a shot." 

 

Game, set, match, and Shiraishi’s face lights up like all his birthdays have come at once. He resists the urge to ask, _you mean it?_ and instead kisses Osamu’s cheek, then his lips, then his lips again. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, and lifts the older man into a hug that lifts him off the ground, elation coursing through every part of him.

 

_What have I gotten myself into?_

 

It's rather akin to buyer's remorse, except that Osamu's never really had that, so does it count? At the same time, the fact that Shiraishi's so happy, the fact that there's no real denying that he himself is really, really into this idea and he _could_ be pushed into walls and kissed like that more often… 

 

"You're way too tall and strong for a kid," he complains all the same. "I'll just start pretending that you're older, that'll do the trick." 

 

“I’m really _not_ that young,” Shiraishi points out, and nuzzles into Osamu’s neck, kissing down to his collar, up to the jump of his pulse, just enjoying the sensation of _lips_ on _skin_.  “I’ve been legal for years, you’re not my teacher, pretend whatever you want.” 

 

Tentatively, ready to stop if Osamu says the word, he slides his hands under that big coat, taking Osamu in a hug that feels a lot more right than it should. The warmth of his body is intoxicating, and Shiraishi can’t think of any reason under the sun to let him go now.

 

"I'm still your coach," Osamu hurries to point out, still struggling with the fact that his breath wants to hitch every damned time Shiraishi puts his mouth to skin. _What the hell, Osamu, you're not a virgin, stop acting like one._  

 

It's nerves. Definitely nerves, especially because they're in the tennis clubroom still, and even if it's late… "Kurarin," he quietly says, hooking his chin over Shiraishi's shoulder even though he firmly tells himself to pull away. "We probably shouldn't be, ah, all over one another like this, in such a public place." 

 

Those words aren’t exactly a bucket of cold water, but they’re at least a fine mist. Shiraishi reluctantly pulls away, a sheepish grin on his face. “I...I got a little carried away,” he admits, carefully pulling himself together before straightening Osamu’s shirt. No, a little untucked is correct. No, not on that side. No, now that looks too messy. No, now it’s too straight--

 

“You fix it,” he mutters, focusing on his bandages instead. At least he knows how they’re supposed to go, and takes that opportunity to adjust between his legs. That’s...uncomfortable, to say the least, but it’ll probably go down eventually. “Sorry,” he murmurs, cheeks hot as he tries to make it a little less obvious. “It’ll go away eventually. It only gets like this for you, I swear.”

 

Osamu just shoots him a wry look, and turns partially away, shaking his head. "You'll be happy that it works that well when you get to be ancient like I am." Fine words, for someone that's _also_ a little too riled up--or so he thinks, when it's a goddamned 16 year old that's done this. He pauses, and grimly concludes, "Everyone else I've ever dated has been older. I've thoroughly diverged." 

 

Shit. That reminds him-- “I forgot...your girlfriend.” No matter that Chitose had seemed sure she doesn’t exist, that’s a far cry from _proof_.

 

Ah. Whoops. "Yeah…uh. About that. Definitely don't have one." 

 

Shiraishi laughs, leaning back against the table, no matter that the look in his current state is a little...revealing. “You don’t have to lie about stupid things like that. Ah, do you want to...” He shifts slightly, biting his bottom lip before taking the plunge. “Is it too early to ask if we can go somewhere else and kiss more? I have my allowance, we could get a love hotel or something...”

 

An eyebrow ticks up at that. "Literally never tell me that you're gonna spend your allowance on something like that again," Osamu mutters, grabbing for his notebook and stuffing it into his lone shoulder bag. "Let's just go back to my apartment." _So you can stop looking that lewd in public. Fuck, I am trash._

 

“That sounds better,” Shiraishi agrees, grabbing his tennis bag and his book bag, carefully arranging himself in his underpants. “I’ve only seen the front room of your place, anyway.” That sounds a little presumptuous, but he decides to let it stay there. He’s not _exactly_ expecting Osamu to drag him into the bedroom, but it’s not like he’d be _unhappy_ about it, either. How many dates is it supposed to be, with two men? He really should have asked Chitose.

 

"To be fair," Osamu wryly offers, "there's not much else to see." 

 

That's a lie. He's got a nice apartment (even if it's a little barren), but it's always been better for people not to really know that. So much for covering up that fact, especially considering he just invited Shiraishi over. 

 

_What was I thinking?_

 

More accurately: _what was my dick thinking?_

 

Thankfully, his apartment is close, even if Osamu keeps thinking about how much of a bad idea this all is. He doesn't stop thinking about it even after they're inside, shoes off, and the door is locked. He at least has the sense to put his phone on silent, but how good of an idea is that at the end of the day, anyway? 

 

 _He is s-i-x-t-e-e-n_ , Osamu cheerfully, regrettably reminds himself. Well, _fuck_. 

 

“Can...can we have a rule?” Shiraishi asks, leaning back against the closed door. “Like, an extension of the way things are on the courts? I’ll feel free to try things unless you tell me they’re....high-level, or something? I’m fine if you want to be the one doing everything first, or correcting me whenever I do something you don’t like, but I’d like to be able to give things a shot.” He nods, reassuring himself, and looks up at Osamu. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says frankly, “and I want you to teach me.”

 

Osamu struggles not to throw the kid out the door and tell him to go home to his mother and stay _safe_. Instead--"Kurarin, you can do whatever you want." Fuck. Fuck, he didn't really mean to say that. "I mean--within reason! Listen, it's weird if I try, ah, to do things first," he attempts to cover up. "I'm only good at teaching tennis, and even that's questionable, so…there's that." 

 

Wrapped up in nerves is permission, so Shiraishi decides on a course of action and goes for it. He sits on the most comfortable, sturdy-looking furniture, and tugs Osamu down next to him. Well, he’d _intended_ to do that, but Osamu somehow winds up sort of on Shiraishi’s lap, and that’s...fine, that’s fine. He flushes slightly but buries his face in Osamu’s chest all the same. “You always smell so good,” he confides. It’s easier when Osamu can’t see his face. “It’s one of the things I have dreams about.”

 

Oh. Well. There are far worse things about him for Shiraishi to be dreaming about.

 

There are also worse places for him to be, though it does take a moment for Osamu to take in a deep breath and settle. Right. This is only awkward if he makes it that way, and he's not going to lie about the fact that Shiraishi's lap is one of the more comfortable ones he's been in lately, what with those narrow hips but strong thighs and…

 

Osamu gives up, straddles him properly with his knees settled to either side of him on the couch, and he sighs, petting a hand back through Shiraishi's hair. "One of them?" he dares to ask. 

 

“One of them.” Shiraishi’s pulse quickens when Osamu straddles him like that, and his pants start getting uncomfortably tight again. Osamu is so _close_ , and the whole thing doesn’t feel real. Ah, well, if it _is_ a dream, the least he can do is make sure that he takes full advantage of it. “Usually it starts at that time we took the Shinkansen, when your car broke down.” His hands come up to Osamu’s sides, holding his surprisingly narrow waist.

 

"You mean when we fell asleep on one another?" Osamu asks, unable to stop a laugh from escaping. " _That's_ what you dream about? More sleep?" he teases to keep the little hitch in his breath hidden. Shiraishi's hands are distractingly good around his waist, and it's a not-so-innocent habit that makes him shift forward  into that hold just a bit more. "How stressed out are you, Kurarin?" 

 

Shiraishi grins, and freely admits, “Pretty stressed most of the time. But that’s not how it ends. I dream about us waking up.” He squeezes his hands, pulling Osamu closer, eyes lidding when that brings Osamu’s thighs, his ass in contact with some much nicer parts of Shiraishi’s anatomy. “Kissing. Taking care of each other. Being in a bed instead, a hundred things, it just...it always starts on that train,” he finishes, a little chagrined.

 

Osamu's tongue flicks out on its own accord, wetting his lower lip. He's pretty sure he's not ready to think about how hard _he's_ getting, but Shiraishi obviously already is, and that's…distracting? Good? Terrifying? He's unsure, so maybe all three. "You're never gonna be able to ride that train again, are you," he mutters, his head tipping forward to half-bury into Shiraishi's hair. He has at least the mind to shove his own hat off, and his hands drag up to those surprisingly broad shoulders, squeezing when he settles down deeper into Shiraishi's lap and his breath catches up in his throat. 

 

“I ride the train all the time,” Shiraishi protests on a gasp, hips lifting involuntarily to help him rub up, giving him enough friction to make his voice catch. “I just--it’s just _you_ that’s the problem, you’re the only thing that makes me--but you do it at tennis too, or when I’m just thinking of you--”

 

He grabs Osamu’s hand, and guides it down, trying to be fearless when he helps the older man cup him through his school uniform. “Like that. Only when I’m thinking about you.”

 

 _I'm the worst, I'm literally the most terrible man ever_ , Osamu desperately thinks, and that's the last thought that skirts the line of sensible when his fingers curl around the hard line of Shiraishi's cock through his pants. 

 

He was a kid once (ages ago, it feels like) and stupid, and rolled around with other stupid kids, and yeah, no, Shiraishi definitely is another man in his grasp, _not_ a kid, especially when Shiraishi's own hands are surprisingly steady, grabbing at him and _guiding_ him. _Who would've thought,_ Osamu blissfully contemplates before he shuts off his mind, lurches forward, and kisses him. 

 

It's not the fleeting, little brush of a kiss, or even like the hurried ones when he was shoved back into the wall of the clubhouse. Osamu grabs Shiraishi's chin with his free hand to steady him, to hold him still when his teeth catch at that full lower lip, when he sucks it into his mouth before drawing him into a longer kiss that makes his pulse pound in his own ears and his body  lurch forward on its own accord to wriggle deeper into Shiraishi's lap.

 

Kisses are different than anything Shiraishi thought.

 

Lips, he was so sure kisses were about _lips_. This is more than that. This feels like Osamu kissing him with his whole body, tasting and teasing and making him shiver down to his toes.

 

He can’t think when Osamu’s hand is on his cock, but his body reacts. He lurches up against that perfect hand, touching him like he’s _wanted_ , like he’s _longed_ for, and tangles his hand in Osamu’s hair, knocking that bucket of a hat to the floor. Osamu tastes like...he doesn’t know. Dark licorice, cigarettes, something vaguely nutty and sweet, Shiraishi doesn’t _care_. He tries to follow Osamu’s lead, difficult when he’s sucking in breath through his nose, when he’s grinding his hips frantically up against Osamu’s hand, getting a lot closer than he wants to admit to ruining his uniform. “Samu-chan,” he whispers, and fumbles with his pants, getting them open and dragging the older man’s hand inside. “Please--”

 

 _This is going to be quick_ , Osamu wryly thinks to himself, but there's not much to complain about there. Mostly, he should be preening, he thinks.

 

It's hard to feel guilty or terrible about it when Shiraishi's the one dragging his hand into his pants, and so he shoves those inklings of thoughts out of his head. "Easy, I've got you," he manages between kisses, giving up on them after a moment when it's just too much work to think past getting his hand properly around Shiraishi's cock. He's so hot and heavy in Osamu's grasp that his own breath catches hard, and he squeezes gently, dragging a thumb over the already-slick, dripping tip. 

 

A tingle, a shooting, blinding stab of pleasure, and a shout, and it’s over. Shiraishi finds himself clinging to Osamu’s arm as he trembles, shaking as he comes in long spurts over Osamu’s hand. It _feels_ like more than he’s ever come, and he’s pretty sure he should be at least a little mortified instead of being deliciously, delightfully thrilled. Pleasure buzzes through his body, ricocheting off of his skin and leaving him in a clingy, twinging puddle. “That...” His eyes shine when he looks up at Osamu. “That was _amazing_. Is sex always that good?”

 

Ahh, and now, back to the glaring, obvious fact of how young Shiraishi is. Osamu feels his smile twitch a little. "Yeahh…we'll go with that," he laughs off, leaning back as he wipes his hand off on his coat and shrugs it off in the process. "That was just a hand job, Kurarin. I'm not sure if it even really counts, I'll be honest." 

 

 _It counts! He's 16!_ a really obnoxious voice screams in the back of his head, and Osamu considers leaping out the window. 

 

Shiraishi makes a game attempt to catch his breath, and stands, lifting Osamu to his feet in the process. “I want to do it for real, then,” he says firmly, wobbling on his feet slightly and trying to ignore it. “Which room has a bed? I don’t want to mess up your couch.”

 

What he _does_ want is to make Osamu mindless with the same kind of pleasure that makes his own brain shut off, something he thought he’d never find. What he _does_ want is to prove with his body if nothing else that he’s as good, as capable as anyone of any age, no matter how little he’s practiced.

 

"Um," is all Osamu manages for a moment, trying very hard not to be as charmed as he is and failing miserably, just like he had failed at making sure a 16 year old didn't turn him on, "just--ah, down that hall, on the left, no, you don't need to carry me. Kurarin, don't fall over." 

 

 _This is a very poor plan_ , he dimly acknowledges, even as he stupidly allows Shiraishi into his bedroom. It's literally mostly filled by his bed--large and western and exceedingly comfortable, for reasons. "You know, we don't _have_ to do this if you aren't entirely sure--" Except Shiraishi had sounded very, very sure. Fuck. He fucked up. 

 

Shiraishi smiles, and nods. “Thank you, Samu-chan. But I’m very sure.” And with that, he takes a leap of faith, and pushes Osamu down onto the bed. 

 

Before following, he removes his shirt and pants (thankfully not dirty), draping them over the back of the room’s only chair. Already he feels more comfortable, more confident; he always does, when he’s at least mostly naked, and shucks his underwear without a second thought. It’s the work of a moment to crawl onto the bed, sitting on his folded legs. Yes, this confidence is what he’s needed, and it gives him the courage to ask, “Is it okay if I put it in?”

 

There are a few things Osamu is sure that he should say to that, but instead, all that he manages is a sort of strangled noise and: "Hell _yes._ " 

 

The problem lies in the fact that Shiraishi is way too good-looking, and the more naked he gets, that apparently just keeps getting better. Welp. He's a bad person, a horrible person, and that's just the end of it for right now. "What the hell do you know about that, anyway?" Osamu has to laugh all the same, scooting away for a moment to tug his shirt up and over his head.

 

“I’m not stupid, I took health class and ev...” Shiraishi’s words die on his tongue when Osamu’s shirt leaves the conversation. There’s a softness there that bespeaks of recent easy living, but under that is sculpted, athlete’s muscle, the kind that comes from activity rather than going to a gym all the time. There’s the tiniest dusting of hair below his navel, and Shiraishi’s eyes lock in on it before he can remember to _be cool_. 

 

He sort of gulps, and his cock starts to fill again. “Uh...what were you saying?” he asks lamely.

 

"Uh huh. Because health class talks a lot about doing other guys, right?" Osamu dryly shoots back, undoing his zipper one-handedly and pointedly not thinking about how Shiraishi's still in school when he twists around to paw open his nightstand. "Koharu had a ball with you, didn't he." 

 

“I _do_ know how to use the Internet,” Shiraishi protests. “Koharu just...sent me some links. I thought he sent them to everyone, but Senri said he didn’t get them.” 

 

On impulse, he leans forward, kissing Osamu’s neck from behind, sliding his hands down bare skin to help ease Osamu’s pants off. Even the idea of it is enough to make him whimper, and being able to just _touch_ like this is what the best of his dreams are made of. “Your skin tastes _so_ good, Samu-chan.”

 

 _Like cigarettes and tennis balls_ , Osamu wants to offer up, but that's cut short when Shiraishi's mouth feels good enough on his skin to make him shiver, and his hands are…well, pretty fucking unfair. "Lie on your back," he manages instead, thankful, at least, that he's picked a great day to _not_ wear any weird underwear. None at all, actually, and that's a lot nicer when he kicks his pants off completely. "I've got this, promise." 

 

Shiraishi rolls over onto his back, eyes tracking every movement that Osamu makes. A stupid noise escapes his lips when he catches sight of Osamu’s cock, something greedy, something that doesn’t sound at all like him, and he tries to breathe like he’s learned in yoga. 

 

Dimly in the back of his mind, Shiraishi knows that _none_ of this is like him. None of this is like his parents’ son, the tennis team captain, the straight-A student with a bright future and a sensible career plan.

 

Not one bit of him cares.

 

He wants to ask where to put his legs, his arms, his _body_ , but if there’s anyone in the world he trusts, it’s Osamu. “You like it this way, right?” he asks breathlessly, cock fully hard and waiting now, starting to point up towards his belly.

 

Osamu kind of wants to accuse the brat of being anything _but_ the virgin he's been claiming to be. He's _way_ too into this--or is he? Ugh, he was pretty fucking precocious as a kid, who's he to talk? 

 

…and he'd make a comment about not chasing after his teachers, but he was worse, in a lot of ways. 

 

"Yeah," he offers instead, straddling Shiraishi's thighs with a quick flip of his own hair out of his face. "That obvious, huh? Or did you just have an idea that you couldn't shake?" Osamu rips open the condom's package with his teeth, and he's careful and light enough with his touch to Shiraishi's cock this time that he knows he's not going to push _too_ many buttons when he rolls it on. 

 

Shiraishi bites his lip so hard it nearly bleeds, taking deep breaths and clenching his fists into Osamu’s sheets. His breath hitches, and he tries to get out, “I--I just, uh, between the two, I thought I’d have less--I’d get so lost the other way, and this seemed--Samu-chan _please_ \--”

 

His mind is in overload, fizzling gratefully off when he watches Osamu get him ready for actual real sex, in his bed, in his apartment. “Do I--need to know anything?” he asks desperately, reaching up to run his hand along the curve of one hip. “How do I make sure I don’t hurt you?”

 

Well, shit, that's it, he's done. Osamu bends down, stealing another kiss before resting their foreheads against one another for a moment. "Calm down," he quietly, but firmly tells Shiraishi, even as he's got his hand on the stupid, neurotic kid's cock, his fingers slick with lube. A dichotomy for sure, especially when it makes his own breath twitch to settle down and wriggle back to let the hard, straining length of it slide against the curve of his ass. "You're not gonna hurt me, it's just gonna be good. Okay?" 

 

It probably shouldn't be so easy to turn his mind off and think about this as being actual good, _fun_ , stress-free sex. It shouldn't be. Shiraishi is his student, his protege, his basket case project that Osamu's been slowly _fixing_ \--

 

And he's really, really hot and desperate and inside of him as of a second ago when Osamu arches his back, presses that cock against his hole and slides down those first few inches with a broken, hitching groan. 

 

"Just--put your hands here, for right now," Osamu breathes, dragging both of Shiraishi's hands to his hips, squeezing them before he lets them go and wriggles the rest of the way down. This is _easy_ , because he doesn't have to overthink it, doesn't have to worry about what he looks like, and Shiraishi's cock fits inside of him perfectly--stretching him and filling him and making him shudder when he sinks down until their skin sticks together, his cock throbbing and dripping down onto Shiraishi's stomach. "Good, y-yeah?"

 

 _Good_ , Shiraishi is pretty sure, is the word for when he hits a ball well, or finds out they’re having cheese risotto for dinner. That word isn’t nearly enough when he’s sliding deep into the man he’s been dreaming about. Every movement sends fire sparkling through him, making him groan, making his hands squeeze tight. Every time he thinks he has it under control, thinks he’s _got this_ , he notices something else--Osamu’s cock is dripping onto his stomach--Osamu’s clenching down on him so hard--Osamu’s abs are tight, rippling--Osamu’s face, Osamu’s _face_ \--

 

“Yeah,” he pants, trying not to thrust up and failing. His hips twitch up, and _up_ , shallow little thrusts that he can’t help, and he tugs Osamu down into each one with a breathless apology. “Is it--you like it, right?” He can’t think, toes curling, cock swelling with each stroke, hands trembling on Osamu’s hips.

 

 _Careful careful careful_ is what Osamu bites back, and instead of saying it, he shifts and rearranges, drawing in a deep breath to better _relax_ , to get his bearings with his knees digging into the mattress and a hand on Shiraishi's chest as he arches his back, and _that's_ much better. "Just like that," he breathlessly praises, hurriedly leaning down to mouth a kiss to the corner of Shiraishi's mouth. 

 

Shiraishi, even if he's over-eager, is at least easy to _guide._ It's really easy to get him into a rhythm when Osamu grinds down, letting Shiraishi press up long and deep inside of him. It takes his breath away and makes him groan, his eyes fluttering. "You feel _good_ , Kurarin--"

 

Shiraishi has never been more overwhelmed. He falls into Osamu’s easy rhythm, rolling his hips up every time Osamu presses down, gasping for breath with each thrust. “Samu-chan,” he moans, hands digging in--and if he moves just _slightly_ , like _that_ , he can sort of squeeze Osamu’s ass, and yeah, that couldn’t be better.

 

He leans up, because impossible positions don’t matter when Osamu looks so lovely and kissable, sweaty hair in his face, legs spread as he rocks down, and with every motion Shiraishi loses his mind a little more. His lips crash inelegantly against Osamu’s--but no, he _has_ this, and the next kiss is better, desperate and hungry and _good_. Osamu’s name falls from his lips over and over, breathed against his skin like a prayer, fitting since Shiraishi feels like he’s seeing God. 

 

Best of all is the look on Osamu’s face.

 

Never let it be known that Shiraishi isn't a fast learner, because god _damn_ , he is. 

 

He's also got a well of instinct in there, thank _god_ , and that's enough to make Osamu groan and arch and squirm down onto that thick cock. His hands drag up through Shiraishi's hair, urging him up when he kisses back hard, sucking and unable to stop from _biting_ his lips, just a little, when Osamu slides down and every muscle in his body twitches and clenches harder. 

 

He probably could offer a few more tips--maybe, but it probably doesn't matter that much. Shiraishi's already got his hands on his ass, he's already kissing him, he's already matching him and his pace and the sweat that's sticking them together shouldn't be as good as it is. Osamu's cock bumps against Shiraishi's stomach when they press closer, and he strangles down a sound that's closer to a whimper than anything when that's it, he's _done_. 

 

It's better to shove his face into Shiraishi's neck and bite his own lip until it nearly bleeds when he comes, breathing unsteadily through his nose, twitching and shivering with every lingering shock. It _hurts_ , almost, having been wound that tight only for it to dissolve in an instant, and with that, Osamu finds himself quite close to boneless. So much for being a flawless mentor in moments like these. 

 

Osamu is perfect, Osamu is his guide and his _mentor_ , Osamu knows what he’s doing--

 

And Osamu is currently breathless and exhausted, coming hard against his stomach. That’s perfect, it’s _glorious_ , but it doesn’t help Shiraishi know what to do to finish the whole thing. Fine, that’s where instinct comes in, he hopes. 

 

Shiraishi sits up, cradling Osamu against his chest, and moves in tiny, shallow, urgent thrusts, eyes sliding closed. _He_ gets sensitive after he’s done, Osamu is surely the same, and this doesn’t need to take forever. Just having Osamu in his arms is enough to make him swell, and he pants out a harsh breath, a choked, “Osamu-chan--” before losing it. He holds as still as he can, flooding the condom as he shoves inside as far as he can go, spilling in a frantic series of bursts as his cock twitches and jerks deep inside. 

 

Too soon, it’s over, and he’s left cradling Osamu’s somewhat limp form, petting his hair, touching his face, and urging both of them to flop onto their sides. Young or not, Shiraishi has _got this_. “Are you...I hope you liked that half as much as I did,” he says softly, trying not to be shy now.

 

"Uh huh," is the mindless, breathless reply that Osamu manages, his vision still blurring. He gets an arm around Shiraishi, languidly petting his fingers down his spine, and even still, he just can't get his mind to really… _focus_ again. 

 

 _Well_ , his mind cheerfully reminds him _, it has been awhile since you had a real goddamn orgasm._

 

Aaand it was with a 16 year old. That's really _great_. 

 

His next exhale leaves in an uneven rush, and he cracks a smile, pressing a quick kiss to the line of Shiraishi's jaw. "Perfect as usual, Kurarin," Osamu offers up, and shifts carefully to reach down and get that condom out of the way and into the nearby trashcan. "Sorry I'm not as athletic as I used to be, but _you_ got yourself into this." 

 

Shiraishi can see the thoughts, the doubts start to swirl in Osamu’s mind again, and that just won’t do. He gently but firmly pushes Osamu onto his back, rolling on top of him and kissing him slow and deep, hoping against hope that he’s doing it right before pulling slowly away. “No apologizing,” he says sternly, hoping he can look stern at all when he’s so _wibbly_. “That was...the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ll get really good at it, it’ll be _Ecstasy_!”

 

"…You make it so, so hard to think about anything other than how cute you are," Osamu mutters after a moment of sort of stunned, disbelieving staring, and promptly slings an arm around Shiraishi's back to haul him down and squeeze him tightly. "What's up with that? I already told you that you were good, you're gonna kill me if it gets any better." 

 

“Nonsense, you’ll adapt.” Shiraishi smiles, snuggling into Osamu’s chest, just where he wants to be. “I told my folks I was staying at Senri's. Can I stay?”

 

"I'm too old to adapt! You can stay, just don't kill me or stop me from smoking in the morning." 

 

That _yes_ is for the best, given that Shiraishi has recently (just now) discovered that he is, in fact, the kind of man who rolls over and falls asleep right after. “Mm. Fine. As long as you kiss me first.”

 

"Yeah, yeah," Osamu exhales, a smile on his lips no matter how fucking _stupid_ he knows this is. "I'll see if I can remember." 

 

Despite his warnings, it’s Shiraishi who wakes up first. It takes him a long minute to figure out where he is, until he rolls onto his side and feels Osamu’s breath on his face.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Right. A smile steals onto his face, and Shiraishi resists the urge to kiss the man in his sleep. That’s impolite, and besides, he has all day, doesn’t he? Instead, he takes the opportunity to slide his hand forward, just enough that he can feel the warmth of Osamu’s body on the sheets, radiating towards him. It feels shockingly intimate, and he bites his lip softly before rolling out of bed, trying not to wake him. 

 

Instead, a little morning yoga on the floor will do to wake him up. There’s no mat, but there’s enough space to stretch out, and that (and his underwear) are all he needs in order to lead himself through a few sets of the Sun Salutation, into a vinyasa sequence he knows by heart by now. The stretching reminds him of how many fantastic places he’s sore, and yet helps him realize how relaxed he must have been over the last several hours, given the relative ease with which his body melts into the stretches. Better than ever, he notes with some mild amusement.

 

Eventually, with a good amount of begrudging effort, Osamu stumbles from the bedroom, pack of cigarettes in hand and only a pair of boxers on. "You," he grouses, yanking open a window for Shiraishi's sanity before he lights a cigarette, "are up way too early." 

 

Theoretically, old people are supposed to go to bed early and get up even earlier, but that's not ever gonna happen if Osamu has anything to do with it. Go to bed late, get up the latest he possibly can--that would be good. He breathes in deep and exhales out of the window, _trying_ to be remotely courteous. "You don't _have_ to get up early on days like this, you know."

 

Shiraishi looks up from a lunge with a peaceful smile on his face. “This is late for me. Ahh, you _could_ say _good morning_ before you start trying to encourage my delinquency, Samu-chan.” He straightens, then folds neatly into Downward Dog, hips and hamstrings in the air.

 

Encourage his delinquency. Right. "…Pretty sure I get a pass after how much was encouraged last night," Osamu manages, firmly telling himself not to stare, failing, and then immediately lighting another cigarette. "What are you even _made of?_ " 

 

“Very supple bone, muscle, fat, and nerves,” Shiraishi says pleasantly. Just to show off, he segues into a pose that doesn’t come next, and bends himself into a very impressive pretzel. “You could come push on my back a little.” When he looks up to catch Osamu’s gaze, his eyes shine. Osamu is _here_ , they both are, and that’s better than he’d ever anticipated.

 

"…Put up with my cigarette smoke for a minute, then," Osamu mutters, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth as he walks over behind him, gingerly pressing down between Shiraishi's shoulder blades. "Here? What the hell, brat, how do you bend like that?" 

 

Shiraishi exhales deeply into the bend, chest touching the floor easily with Osamu’s help. “Practice. I can teach you, if you want.” He turns his head to brush a kiss to the inside of Osamu’s hand, thrilling at just that much contact. “Or you can just watch.”

 

"Thanks, but I'd rather not break my back this early in the day," Osamu wryly answers, giving one of Shiraishi's shoulders a lingering squeeze before drawing his hand away. "I still have to be capable of helping you with tennis at least a little bit later. Do you want coffee or tea, by the way?" 

 

 _He's_ making a beeline for the coffee maker…and shit, also, his phone. It's a good thing it's still on silent, because he can already tell there's a couple of missed calls and texts. He's just not going to address that right now--except to discreetly turn it right the fuck off.  

 

“Tea, please. You should eat, do you mind if I make you breakfast?” Time to cool down, and Shiraishi goes into corpse pose after a few stretches, finishing on a deep exhale and a murmured, “ _Namaste_.”

 

"You don't need to make me anything--I'm rarely home, so everything's a little barren, anyway," Osamu tosses over his shoulder, fishing out the tea in question. "If you're gonna be sleeping over, leave one of your yoga mats here or something so you're more comfortable." Shit. That's probably way too much of a proposal. He's a gross old man, Kurarin is _sixteen_ , and he does _not_ need to be staying over all the time. 

 

“Good idea. I’ll bring some food, too, so you won’t have to worry about me eating all of your stuff.” Shiraishi sits on the edge of one of the kitchen table seats, following Osamu around the room with his eyes, checking for any sign... “You’re not...really sore, are you? I can be more gentle next time, it was just kind of...overwhelming.”

 

There's really no stopping that startled laugh. "Kurarin," Osamu patiently says, getting out a cup for his tea, "you were _really_ fine. You were pretty gentle, so don't stress over it." 

 

“Oh. Good.” One less thing to stress over, which is always something of a blessing. “You, ah. You were great. I mean, not to give you any kind of performance critique or anything, I just...want you to know.” He rests his chin on his hands, the shyness slowly melting away when he thinks about last night. “I loved it.”

 

_Shit, he's cute._

 

That's a problem. A really big one, the more Osamu thinks about it and panics over it, so he shoves that thought out of his mind and just pours the stupid kid his tea. "Yeah, well," he awkwardly says, drifting away to get his coffee, too. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I warned you, I'm not as athletic as I used to be, but if you were into it, that's good." 

 

Shiraishi accepts his tea with a soft word of thanks, and waits for it to cool slightly before taking a delicate sip. “You’re doing that thing again,” he says, slightly amused. “Where you talk like I’m the only one that matters. I want _you_ to like it, too.”

 

"Hey, I liked it. If I hadn't, I would've tossed you out," Osamu jokes, flopping down at the kitchen table across from Shiraishi. "Well--that's not true. But I would've told you." _Maybe_. 

 

“I don’t think you would have,” Shiraishi says honestly, and nudges his toe against Osamu’s foot under the table. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, either. You’re awfully sweet to me, Samu-chan.”

 

"How sweet can I be when I'm 11 years older than you and inviting you back to my apartment?" Osamu grouses half-heartedly around his mug of coffee. "For what it's worth, Kurarin, you _were_ fine and I _did_ enjoy it. Don't stress over it."

 

“It’ll get better.” Shiraishi takes a sip, pleasantly surprised by the tea’s quality. “Mm, that’s good for a bachelor’s apartment.” Looking around, he raises his eyebrows, noticing for the first time, “This is actually a _really_ nice place. I was, uh, a little distracted before.”

 

"Heh, is it? I've never really thought about it." Lying through his teeth, whoops. "I'd give you a real tour, but it's not _that_ big or anything. The best thing is that I've got a washer and dryer, actually; did you need to do laundry after last night?" 

 

That derails Shiraishi’s train of thought very quickly, and he nods, once. “I wouldn’t mind. The dryer won’t damage the uniform, will it? I usually alternate and hang it to dry outside, Mom says that’s better for the fabric in the long run.”

 

"Eh, it's a pretty good dryer, you should be okay." Ah, yes. A reminder that he definitely gave Shiraishi his first hand job while he was wearing his school uniform. Fucking _fantastic_. 

 

“Great! I don’t mind doing it, if you show me where it is. Do you have...like a morning routine or something? Do you need the newspaper?” Shiraishi is mildly convinced that most adult men require a newspaper in the mornings.

 

"Kurarin," Osamu deadpans, "most of the time, I am not up before about three in the afternoon on the weekend. Honestly." 

 

“Ah, perfect!” Shiraishi beams. “Then I’ve rescued your day. We should celebrate. Maybe play tennis? Ah, or I have some coaching ideas to run past you. Or....” He cuts himself off, and suggests hesitantly, because it’s nothing like what they’ve done before, “We could watch a movie or something. On the couch. Together. If you want.”

 

 _Rescued_ his day. Ah. Yeah, sure, he'll go with that. What was he going to do but sleep and wait for his phone to wake him up, anyway? "Or, all of it," Osamu offers, downing back the rest of his coffee. "You got me up early enough. Before it gets too hot, we might as well do the tennis thing first."

 

When other people suggest tennis, it makes Shiraishi light up like the Tokyo Skytree. “We could just hit balls around for a while first,” he suggests, finishing his tea and moving to the sink to rinse the cup out, placing it upside down on the drying rack. “You think you could help me work on that trick shot Echizen was trying out the other day? I want to be able to counter anything like that when I...” Too late, he hears the words come out of his mouth.

 

Osamu's eyebrows arch. "When you…?" he presses, climbing to his feet and slinking over to prod at one of his shoulders. "Someone's got ideas, go on, spill 'em." 

 

There’s really no putting the beans back after they’ve been spilled. “I haven’t said it aloud yet,” Shiraishi says cautiously, focusing on the cup slowly dripping onto the mat. “I just sort of had an idea. You know how I said the idea of going pro didn’t appeal to me as much as being on a team?”

 

"Right, right." Osamu pulls away, leaning back against the kitchen counter to better watch Shiraishi. "So, what? Changing your mind, or still not sure?" 

 

“No, I still feel the same. Only, well....” Shiraishi shrugs, and commits it to reality. “The Olympic team is a team, isn’t it?”

 

Osamu blinks, processes, and slowly grins. " _Seriously?_ Damn, Kurarin, aim high or not at all, huh?" he laughs, leaning over to clap a hand to Shiraishi's shoulder. "Hell yeah, it's still a team. I bet you'd still knock them all out of the park, though!" 

 

Shiraishi turns and buries his face into Osamu’s shoulder, embarrassed. “I just mean--that would sure prove to everyone I was serious, right? And you get there on talent alone, not on whether you can talk to sponsors in English, so...I might have a shot. No, I’m being modest,” he acknowledges with a little laugh. “I think I have a shot. I signed up for a tournament next month, I was waiting to tell you.”

 

"Kurarin, you're gonna kill me," Osamu bemoans, wrapping both arms around Shiraishi for a long, solid squeeze. "Well, now we _have_ to spend all day practicing, you big idiot. You should've told me sooner, we've got to fix some things in your training regime now!" 

 

“Good thing I’ve got a great coach, then, right?” Shiraishi beams at him, hands kneading slowly into Osamu's shoulders before he leans in for a sweet, brief kiss. “Everyone else should be terrified.”

 

Osamu heaves a sigh, giving him a last squeeze before letting him go with a smile. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see about that once you actually make it there and kick some real ass." 

 

The look Shiraishi gives him is almost insulted. “Do all that without breakfast? You think an awful lot of me. We can stop by a conbini on the way to the courts, they have some fresh fruit there, usually.”

 

"Fine. Eat all the damned fruit that you want, I could use more cigarettes, anyway."

 


	5. Rikkai, Kite & Marui

There is nothing more infuriating than Mouri Juzaburou. Akuto is sure of that. 

 

He was tolerable, at least, when Ochi was in Tokyo. Now that he's off on some island for school (what the _hell_ , honestly), Mouri is insufferable, especially when it comes to actually paying attention to any and all captain's duties. 

 

Akuto can manage this. Akuto can keep a clear head about this. He can be both the vice captain and the treasurer and pull his weight as captain on most days, even when Mouri is on the phone chattering away to someone that isn't uttering a word in return. 

 

He can do all of this, at least, until it happens to be the week before the Kanagawa Regionals, and it's impossible. 

 

"Sanada-kun." 

 

The tennis clubhouse door bangs shut behind him, and Akuto smiles as sweetly as he can manage when he's stressed enough to start pulling out his hair. He has split ends now, he _knows it_. "I require your assistance." 

 

Sanada gets to his feet in an instant. Years of remembering his obescience to his upperclassmen have not gone unremembered, though there is a certain element of...chafing, now that he’s back at the bottom of the totem pole. Worse is that the one he’s deferring to isn’t even Yukimura. Instead, it’s his seniors, though that does come with a certain element of freedom, of welcomed humility. 

 

“Yes, Mitsuya-sempai?” he asks, nodding his head in an informal bow. “How can I help?” As long as it doesn’t take too long, he won’t need to reschedule his sparring match with Kite.

 

"The regionals are coming up," Akuto says without any further hesitation, and he reaches out, grasping Sanada's upper arms with both hands, staring him down over his glasses. "I _need_ you to help me manage this team properly." 

 

Akuto certainly is _touching_ him. That’s unfair tactics, and worse is how Sanada’s mind is quick to point out that Akuto’s hands feel soft and smooth, how he wears the same kind of glasses that Yukimura has hidden away in his bedroom and ah, he really needs to text back already--

 

Sanada steps stiffly back, adjusting his bangs. It still feels strange to have given up the hat, but after all, there’s much more off-and-on this year, and it had required a new haircut. “I’m not sure what you want me to do, Mitsuya-sempai. I’m not even the vice-captain. Surely it’s your job to help Mouri-buchou manage the team.” Even if it _isn’t being done_ , it’s still in the hands of those with the proper responsibility.

 

"I've _tried_ to help," Akuto sweetly replies, his hands quick to grab at Sanada's wrists instead, his grip shockingly tight and unrelenting. "Unfortunately, my requests go unheeded. That's why I need someone like _you_ to help me. Mouri-kun tends to, ah, how should I put this--get distracted." His hands squeeze more tightly. "You don't get distracted, do you, Sanada-kun? Especially when the captain is incapacitated in some way. _You_ , instead, always step up." 

 

“I do,” Sanada says, low and serious, “when I am the vice-captain. In this case, I have not been trusted with that responsibility.” He pauses, testing Akuto’s grip and finding it far too strong for someone of his willowy build (something that does rather _appeal_ to him, which is neither here nor there), and decides not to fight the hold. It might not go well for him, and that would just be embarrassing. “What exactly are you asking me to do? Become Vice-Captain in your place?”

 

Akuto likes this one. He already is following directions better than Mouri ever has, even with just the slightest of hints dropped.

 

"I wouldn't expect you to stoop so low," he wheedles, loosening his hold just _slightly_ to make it clear that Sanada's meeting his expectations. "I'd actually greatly prefer if you helped me as a _captain_ instead. There are quite a few forms, for example, that require a captain's signature, and when Mouri-kun ignores them, I find that very stressful." His smile twitches a little. "I don't like being stressed when I _know_ things can be run much more efficiently." 

 

Sanada _does_ like praise. It’s been quite a while, even longer since he’s had something of a genuine challenge, and the idea...

 

“Mouri-buchou wouldn’t approve.” His voice is cautious, but not prohibitive. “Unless you’ve already spoken to him. He doesn’t _seem_ like he’s really enjoying his captaincy as much as he thought he would.”

 

"What he would appreciate is someone doing a lot of the work for him," Akuto points out, releasing Sanada's wrists with a slow, lingering little rub of his thumb to the back of his hand. "He's finding it to be far too much…hands on activity, I think. For the time being, if you helped me and more or less assumed his responsibilities…"

 

“Ah?” Sanada gets himself under control--it’s only a _little_ difficult--and nods slowly. “In other words, you want me to take over Mouri-buchou’s duties. You want to stay vice-captain, you just want me doing all the work from the shadows. I’ll pass.”

 

Akuto's lips purse. "Think of it this way," he coolly retorts. "Do you _really_ want to be vice captain to someone that's an idiot like him? I'm offering you a chance to manage the team _without_ having to directly deal with him." 

 

“Having someone claim credit for my hard work doesn’t appeal to me,” Sanada says frankly. “You seem to have an image of me that’s very un-ambitious, Mitsuya-sempai. You would still need the Captain’s signature on everything, wouldn’t you? That wouldn’t change.”

 

Damned shrewd brat. Akuto heaves a sigh, folding his arms across his chest. "Fine. If I _did_ offer you the vice-captain position, then you would be responsible for handling any and all requests that need to be directed to Mouri-kun. You can see first hand how impossible he is to deal with." 

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mitsuya-sempai,” Sanada says, assuming an easier, more confident stance, “but there’s no way Mouri-buchou will approve that. He said himself he doesn’t want one of the _damn brats_ running things even as vice-captain, if I heard him correctly. Besides, I’m having a very relaxing year. I’ve started focusing on kendo again. Why would I want to run the team for a captain that doesn’t even care enough to show up to practice?”

 

"Because I'm going to scare the shit out of him by doing this." 

 

It's said so casually that it's probably a bit shocking, and if that's the case, then good, Akuto thinks. He smiles brightly, leaning closer to better hold Sanada's gaze. "If I resign and just become the treasurer, he's not going to have any _choice_ but to take someone else on as a vice-captain…because he sure as hell isn't going to want to do all of that work, but he still wants Rikkai to look good. What better man for the job than you?" He reaches over, giving Sanada's shoulder a squeeze. "And besides--don't you think that Yukimura-kun would be disappointed if you let the tennis club be run into the ground here under your watch?"

 

“I think,” Sanada says quietly, without playing down any of the determination in his voice, “that Yukimura would be disappointed in me for letting anyone take credit for my work.” 

 

However...he _does_ like the concept of a well-run team. And if he’s vice-captain, that will look good on the all-important resume that his advisor keeps nagging him about, as well as giving him some much-needed challenge in his life. 

 

“Fine. If you can get him to agree, however you have to do it, I’ll do all your dirty work for you.”

 

"Rude, Sanada-kun. It's not dirty work, it's the work that was _made_ for you," Akuto hums, giving his shoulder a last pat before drifting backwards. "I'll see what I can come up with. Don't worry, it won't take long for me to find out either way!" 

 

Sanada gives Akuto a short nod, then makes a beeline for the showers. It’s not his first cold shower of the day in the tennis clubhouse, and it probably won’t be today’s last, either. 

 

Hormones are getting to be a serious problem as of late. Yukimura is clearly having a great time in England, which is fantastic, but Sanada had found himself somewhat unprepared for life as a single man again. True, he and Yukimura are very much still a couple. The problem lies in the fact that Yukimura isn’t _here_ , and that cutting sex out of Sanada’s life had been substantially more difficult than never having it in the first place, for some reason.

 

He turns the shower on, strips down, and steps in hips-first, letting the frigid water shock his system. Yes, painful and perfect.

 

**To: Genichirou**

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: evenning**

**can't sleep and i was thinking of you. don't get too bored without me there** **♥♥♥**

 

"Ah, Sanada-kun, your phone went off." 

 

 _It's a little soon for you to be taking a shower_ , Kite wryly thinks, wondering if he missed their sparring match somehow and Sanada found someone else to preoccupy his time with. Doubtful, that. Judging by the way that Akuto flounced out of the clubhouse…ah, well, Kite doesn't even want to know. 

 

Maybe rescheduling would be a good idea. His own phone is due to start going off at any time now, after all. 

 

Sanada shuts off the water, grabbing a small towel and systematically drying himself from hair to toes. “Kite-kun. We both do have issues with our phones, don’t we?” He checks the clock, but no, he’s not late for his sparring session. “Five minutes, in the ring?” That should give him time to put on his shorts and text Yukimura (it’s always Yukimura) back.

 

"As per usual." What he's replying to could be either or both. Kite only hesitates for a moment, and rather carefully offers up: "Mitsuya-fukubuchou seemed…happier than usual." That's a word for it, he supposes.

 

“He usually does, when he can work out a way to fob off his work on someone else,” Sanada says with a sigh. If only Mouri weren’t a _second year_ , they wouldn’t have this issue; he’d be perfectly content to wait until his second year to seize leadership, but waiting until the third year is difficult. “He likes to be able to watch from a distance, that one. I’m familiar with the type.” 

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**From:** **真田源一郎**

**Subject: Good Evening**

**Seiichi please be careful. you know full well i am at school. you know your hearts cause me an Erection and i have already had one cold shower.**

 

Why the hell is that one word capitalized? Sanada usually wants to throw the damn phone down a storm drain.

 

Kite's eyebrows raise, and he pushes up his glasses with one finger. "He seems like a hard enough worker," he settles for diplomatically. "To be fair, though, Mouri-buchou tends to…make his workload that much more difficult at times, doesn't he." 

 

**To: Genichirou**

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: wwww**

**not sorry** **♥** **it's just a shame i'm not there to see it** **♥** **if it was a hot shower i'd get in there with you** **♥**

 

“He does.” Sanada types out a quick reply--

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**From:** **真田源一郎**

**Subject: re: wwww**

**you are making things difficult. i have to go spar now. i hope you are happy. i miss you very much. i dont know how to make a heart but i am heart at you.**

 

\--and tucks his phone away, turning off text alerts for the time being. There’s nothing too much more to say about his deal with Akuto for the time being. Either something will come of it, or it won’t. “Kite-kun, you were the captain at your old school. Do you find it difficult to assume the submissive role now?”

 

"I'm mostly just glad to be able to play at a school as prestigious as Rikkai." 

 

It's a canned answer, of course, and it feels like lead on his tongue. "…I dislike feeling as if nothing I say will change anything," Kite amends after a moment's pause, and then shrugs, dismissively. "I'm not entirely sure why I came here in the first place, but thus is life." 

 

“I came to Rikkai because Yukimura wanted to.” It’s the first time Sanada has admitted that out loud, and he crosses his arms, scowling at the world. “You probably had a lot more freedom in Okinawa.”

 

**To: Eishirou**

**From: Rin**

**Subject: Eishirouuuuuuuuuu**

**pics attached should i dye my hair pic 1 or pic 2? we’re all doing new hair for the pirate cafe and kai already called purple fyi im gonna be a wench**

 

**Attachment: pink.jpg**

**Attachment: copper.jpg**

 

**To: Eishirou**

**From: Kai**

**Subject: buchouuuuuuu**

**kei took my lunch culd u text mom and ask her to bring me a new one???? lost her # lol**

 

"Ah--sorry, Sanada-kun, just a second," Kite murmurs, shoving his glasses up as he turns to quickly bury his attention over his phone, the one thing that feels like his last _lifeline_ at this point. No one said Rikkai would be this lonely, or this unpleasant, or…

 

**To: Rin**

**From: Eishirou**

**Subject: Re: Eishirouuuuuuuuuu**

**Neither compliment your skin tone, definitely go for a blue or a teal instead. No greens.**

 

**To: Kai**

**From: Eishirou**

**Subject: Re: buchouuuuuuu**

**I'm not your captain, I'll text your mother, and I'll send you her number, too.**

 

"…Sorry. My team--er, my old team, I should say, tends to still ask me for advice about things." Kite tucks his phone away after texting Kai's mother as requested, and sighs. "It wasn't a matter of freedom in Okinawa. It was more…how should I put this…" _I built the whole damned team myself._ "It was _my_ team. This team still feels very…disjointed." He shrugs. "I'm not sure how to fix that, I'm afraid." 

 

“It feels that way to me too,” Sanada admits. “Everything in middle school was more...cohesive. We had a captain, a coach, and a club president all in one, and he was magnificent.” HIs voice might be a little too wistful, but there’s never been anything he could do about that where Yukimura is concerned. “Even when he was gone, we had a common goal, for his sake. Here, it feels like...singles players on a team because they have to be. Like cats tied together instead of a team of sled dogs. So far, anyway.”

 

**To: Eishirou**

**From: Rin**

**Subject: Re: Eishirouuuuuuuuuu**

**Like this??? Fuck I’m gonna have to change my whole wardrobe. Pics to follow after school.**

 

**Attachment: Teal.jpg**

 

**To: Eishirou**

**From: Kai**

**Subject: :D:D:D:D:D:D**

**shes bringing me BURGERS!! ur the best HEY did u hear were doing pirate cafe ARRRRRR u shud cum back ill save u a spot btw wats a wench**

 

"Mmnn…the doubles pairs seem cohesive, but otherwise, you're correct. Mouri-buchou doesn't particularly seem to care about being captain all that much, and he and Akuto-fukubuchou certainly do not get along," Kite mildly notes, glancing down at his phone with a sigh. 

 

**To: Rin**

**From: Eishirou**

**Subject: Re: Eishirouuuuuuuuuu**

**Yes, perfect. If you go visit my parents, I have a few things that might work for you if you need them, just ask to rummage through my closet, they'll understand.**

 

**To: Kai**

**From: Eishirou**

**Subject: I'm going to feed you goya**

**It's a like a girl pirate. I can't come, so you have to be perfect at it instead.**

 

"We," Kite suddenly decides, "would probably be decent at this whole captain and vice-captain thing. A pity we're both first years, and that actually seems to make a difference here." 

 

Sanada nods slowly. “For now. I’ve found that seniority usually matters--to a point. I’m also very certain that Mouri-buchou will get sick of the _antics_ I’ve been dealing with before long. That’s not a bad idea you have.” He leads the way out the doors, heading for the practice courts and pausing in front of the ring. “We appear to have spectators again. No weapons this time?” They trade back and forth, sometimes with, sometimes without.

 

**To: Eishirou**

**From: Rin**

**Subject: Re: Eishirouuuuuuuuuu**

**I’ll just tell them I NEED ALL HIS TEAL! but seriously your mom said to ask if you want the black or the gray coat, we’re making you a care package but there’s only room to send one. yes i put in goya.**

 

**To: Eishirou**

**From: Kai**

**Subject: NO**

**im gonna b cute btw were giving kei HUGE TITTIES w watermelongs rin will take pix**

 

**To: Rin**

**From: Eishirou**

**Subject: Surprise me**

 

Kite sighs and puts his phone aside for good, doing his best not to think about Kei's enormous watermelon boobs. "No weapons, I think. Are we eventually going to get in trouble for this, I wonder? I can't imagine we will, but I feel as though sparring on school grounds is somehow…questionable." It wasn't in Okinawa, but Kanagawa is definitely a strange and unfortunate place in many different ways. 

 

Sanada snorts, and tosses his jacket to the side. “Only if your family sues or something. Otherwise they’ll just say that we’re fostering a spirit of competition. Rikkai does like to encourage self-motivation that way.”

 

He’d been nice and limber, but that was before the cold shower. Sanada takes a few seconds to warm up now, stretching out his limbs before entering the ring to general applause. He gives into the showmanship just a little, holding up a triumphant fist to several cheers of _“Emperor! Emperor! Emperor!”_

 

He can’t exactly claim he hasn’t _missed_ this. He settles down into a fighting stance, and beckons with one hand. “When you’re ready.”

 

A shame that no one's cheering his name, but oh well. 

 

Kite tugs his own jacket off, sets his phone atop it once it's all put to the side, and stretches carefully with his arms over his head. "I think," he bemusedly says, "that you are the one that attracts the crowds the most here, Sanada-kun." 

 

It would be different in Okinawa. Then again, he didn't have an opponent like this in Okinawa, and that's obvious with just the first lunge and the barest of touches. Well, whatever. Kite supposes he didn't come to Rikkai for a lack of challenge. 

 

Kite is fast, and accurate, and powerful. He’s the exact kind of opponent that Sanada loves facing, the kind against whom he doesn’t have to pull back. Every move he has _works_ against Kite, with the added twist of the Okinawan roots making it unpredictable. Fortunately, the fact that Kite occasionally lands a punch or kick on him wakes him up, makes him feel alive, and pushes him on harder.

 

They don’t set rules, when they spar. Sometimes one of them will switch to a different style at the speed of thought, only telegraphing their move when the hit lands, if it lands. Even five minutes is enough to leave them sweaty, trying to control their breathing, and trying to carefully close off the people cheering his name. 

 

They’ll be disappointed. The audience always is, because an audience wants a winner. Sanada and Kite don’t usually spar that way, going instead until one of them calls _Enough_ , which is as much a cry of defeat between them as anything. “Tired yet?” Sanada throws out, challenging.

 

Over the dull roar of blood pounding in his head, Kite can hear his phone occasionally beeping away, warning him of more text messages. "Not yet," is his simple reply instead, and he gets a punch in when he least expects to. 

 

He's about as sweaty as he would be in Okinawa, but it's from effort here, not the heat. Sanada, Kite grimly thinks, would have made an excellent addition to Higa's tennis team. He would have been as loyal as the rest of them. It's not a thought that he would have assumed weeks ago, when they had first circled one another warily and barely considered one another worthy to even stand on a tennis court.

 

Now, it's different, because who _else_ is he supposed to even talk to at this school? 

 

The spar goes on for too long. They both know it, but it must be obvious by now that this is less about the spar itself today, and one hell of a lot of pent up frustration. Kite glances out of the corner of his eye, sees Akuto watching with that little smile on his face, and decides, wryly, that Sanada can have the 'win' for the day for putting up with _that_. 

 

"Enough," he finally, breathlessly offers, and his fingers shake as they close around Sanada's wrist. Maybe next year, all of this will be a bit easier. _It's only been a few months, get over it, Eishirou._

 

A surge of victory courses through Sanada’s blood, and his eyes blaze as he squeezes Kite’s hand. That feels better than it should, feeling the drumbeat of that pulse against his own, and he raises both their joined hands into the air on a whim. 

 

The resulting cheer is delighted, and it sends the small crowd dispersing, hurrying off to their classes. Sanada hangs back until Akuto, at least, has left. “You weren’t done,” he observes. “You could have kept going. Three great strikes today, Kite-kun.”

 

Kite bows, short but formally nonetheless. "I'm out of practice," he tiredly admits. "One of these days, I'll find myself back up to my true strength." 

 

His phone beeps too cheerfully, and he sighs. "A shower before class," he mutters, mostly to himself. "And perhaps practice this afternoon will be…better." 

 

“I wouldn’t mind another shower,” Sanada admits. It’s a rare day when sparring with Kite doesn’t get him in the kind of state where he requires a cold shower. That’s nothing special--it’s not _about_ Kite, he knows, just the fact that he’s on something worse than a hair trigger, and there’s a fierce sweating body in close proximity to his own. Then he notices. “New glasses?”

 

Kite blinks at him. "You actually _noticed_." There's no helping the element of smugness there. "They are new, yes. I _do_ try to keep up on the latest fashions, it's a hobby of mine." He's not going to talk about how one of Mouri's serves went askew and bent his last pair, no.

 

“I don’t know anything about fashion,” Sanada says, with all the gravity of someone whose sweaters have been insulted calmly by Yanagi Renji one too many times, “I just notice what looks good.”

 

"Then I'll take that as a compliment. I thought for sure that Yukimura-kun would have dragged you into such things, but I suppose not…" Kite idly turns off his phone after sending out a last few text messages. "Perhaps it's for the best. You have enough to concern yourself with, I'm sure." 

 

“He hated shopping with me,” Sanada mutters darkly, stripping off before heading to the showers. “He went with Renji instead, every time. They’d come back with five bags of socks, _why_?” Sure, the socks had been cute, but they’re still _socks_.

 

"We all have different tastes, I suppose," Kite wryly notes, taking a quick, appraising look at Sanada from behind before he takes his glasses off and strips out of his own clothing. His shower, unlike Sanada's, is pipingly hot, and that's a fantastic thing even when he's dripping in sweat. "I _did_ always notice Yukimura-kun's…ah…lack of uniformity, when it came to that part…" 

 

“Yeah.” Sanada’s voice is a sigh at this point, and the icewater is a very good thing when he’s thinking about Yukimura. He’s _usually_ thinking about Yukimura, granted, but...ah. 

 

“Did you have anyone special back in Okinawa, Kite-kun?” he asks suddenly, realizing he doesn’t know. “I never asked. Someone you’re missing?”

 

Oh, they're going _there_ , apparently. That's unfortunate. Kite's hair melts accordingly in the shower, and he sighs at it. "Just my whole team," he admits. "No one that I'm…well." _Is now the time to make forward and direct assumptions about you and Yukimura, because everyone knows it anyway?_  

 

Sanada grunts. His thoughts are far away, sleeping late and winning tennis championships with a razor-sharp wit and a genuine smile. His hands go through the motion of the shower, rubbing himself harshly down with the coarse towel and turning his skin pink without him really noticing. Too late, he realizes it’s been a while since he’s said something, and fishes for something to say. “Your accent is very light these days. On purpose?”

 

"…You notice a lot of things about me, Sanada-kun," Kite wryly tosses back, done with soaking out the hair gel and more or less giving up on it after that. He doesn't have time to sit around and do his hair for hours on end anymore. A shame, that, and if it ends up ruined, he doesn't quite have the drive to fix it afterwards. He shakes it out, blinking water out of his eyes. "But yes. On purpose. Is that such a bad thing?" 

 

“It makes you a lot easier to understand.” Sanada shrugs, and turns his body so that the spray goes where it’s most needed. Heart-inspired erections (or Erections) are the most persistent. The divider between stalls is useful, and he hisses out a breath when the cold stream hits between his legs. “You’re the only person here I didn’t grow up with, I’m going to notice more things.”

 

"That's fair." Right. It's time to go there, Kite thinks. They've known each other long enough, he supposes, and it's _obvious_ , isn't it? "Is it difficult, with Yukimura-kun being away?" 

 

Sanada faces the water, letting it wash over him. After a long several moments, he says, “The water in this shower washes into the Pacific. By the principle of diffusion, it’ll be in England before Yukimura comes home. Renji told me that, and I can’t stop thinking about it.” His smile is bitter and small. “Does that answer your question, Kite-kun?”

 

"Yes." It does, even if it's in an odd way. Kite can respect that. He exhales a slow breath through his nose, and shuts his eyes, letting the hot water splash over his face until even his skin starts to turn red. "I was hoping that there would be someone in Okinawa like that for me, but now I'm actually sort of relieved that there isn't. My team is troublesome enough." 

 

“They text you enough. Obviously they miss you.” Sanada dunks his head under, and sets about scrubbing behind his ears. “I saw your team play Shitenhouji last year. Who was your vice captain?”

 

"…Kai-kun." Kite heaves a long sigh. "He didn't know until a magazine interview came out. It was better that way." 

 

“Ah. How’s he doing as Captain this year, then?” Sanada is pretty sure he remembers which one Kai is. Fortunately, he keeps a straight face anyway.

 

"The assumption that I left the captaincy to him is astounding." Kite just sounds tired about it, really. "Even though you're correct, and that's what I did, unfortunately. From what I can tell, he's doing just fine." 

 

“It seemed like something of a cohesive team. Rikkai is...it’s a school that attracts strong individuals.” Saying those words does nothing to quell erections. Sanada has long since accepted that about himself. “Strong individuals either need to be ruled by the strongest, or led by the most determined.”

 

"That's a nice way of saying that Rikkai is floundering without Yukimura-kun." There's no doubt that Higa is as well, and that's unfortunate. Kite worries briefly at his lower lip, annoyed the more that he thinks about it. "We're going to be late at this rate." 

 

Sanada shuts off the shower, grabbing his towel and rubbing it roughly over his skin, soaking up what hasn’t already washed out to fall on Yukimura some months later. He and Kite have the same class for first period, which has always caused a bit of friction. Kite, unfortunately, is as big of what Yukimura would call a _nerd_ as Sanada is, and the competition for the teacher’s attention is a bit extreme. “Trade notes at lunch?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked.

 

"As per usual." Kite shakes out his hair as much as possible before bothering to towel it dry, and tries not to think about how it's in his damned _face_ now. That's about as far from stylish as it ever could be. 

 

At lunch, however, Sanada has one duty to first attend to. He slips out of the school proper, ducking behind the Arts and Humanities building to pull out his cell phone and an international calling card, dialing 27 numbers, then waiting patiently to be connected to Yukimura. Thinking about him is one thing. Talking about him to Kite warrants spending his allowance.

 

"You're just lucky I'm home and air conditioned right now," is the first, cheerful answer that Sanada ends up with. "Do you know how much I get yelled at for wanting to constantly check my phone on the court?" 

 

 _So much, whoops_ , is the answer, and Yukimura _knows_ he should feel worse about that. He's here in England for _tennis_ , so much tennis, but that doesn't mean that it's been exactly easy ignoring the one real, reliable way to have any member of his team's voice available to him-- _especially_ when it's Sanada. 

 

“You deserve it for sending me all those hearts.” Sanada hears the embarrassing chance in his own voice. Oh, well. Yukimura has always been able to bring out the entirely too fond in him. “Mitsuya-sempai offered to make me vice-captain today. Did you eat breakfast?”

 

"I _ate_ ," Yukimura says, pretty sure that he's only half-fibbing when he thinks of that granola bar and the can of Red Bull that has been lasting for awhile now. "More importantly--Mitsuya did _what?_ He's weird, you know, don't trust him." 

 

“I know. He definitely wants something out of me. I’m waiting to see what it is.” Sanada pauses, then adds, “Red Bull doesn’t count as food, Seiichi. Do they even have proper Japanese breakfast over there?”

 

"I had a granola bar," Yukimura crossly tells him, cradling the phone to his ear as he plops down onto his apartment's couch. "It's not like I ever finished a 'proper Japanese breakfast', anyway. Listen, Gen, if he's trying to make you vice-captain, that's not necessarily a bad thing, but you _know_ he's weird. You should ask Renji about it." 

 

Sanada huffs, leaning back against the stone walls. “Renji spends all of his time with Mitsuya-sempai and Inui anyway. For all I know, they’re all in it together as some kind of scheme. It’s Mouri-buchou I’m worried about.” He snorts. “Well, not _worried_. Apprehensive.”

 

"Uh huh." Yukimura hopes the raise of his eyebrows is audible. "He's a puppy. A lazy one." 

 

“Puppies have the sharpest teeth.” Sanada knows dogs. “And they have no sense of boundaries. Speaking of boundaries, Tezuka. Is he being respectful to you?” Heh. _Tezuka_.

 

"Well, then be sweet to Mouri, and see how far that gets you on his good side," Yukimura says with a sigh, flopping his head back over the side of the couch. "Honestly, I rarely see Tezuka. Or Atobe, for that matter. They do their own thing." _There's no one over here and it's really lonely at times and when I say that I'd be up for spending time with Tezuka Kunimitsu, that should say something._  

 

Sanada lets out a disapproving little growl in his throat. “That’s for the best. They should fear you on the courts. They should be afraid to even say your _name_. What about that tournament coming up, the Roland Garros? Did you get seeded?”

 

"Yes, yes, I thought I sent you an e-mail about that." Yukimura huffs, shutting his eyes. "Do you know how annoying it is sometimes to deal with sponsors? Thank _god_ they think I'm cute, though they're sort of mystified by all of these Japanese kids coming over." 

 

“Are they racist against the Japanese? I’ve heard about that kind of thing. They put paint on your house if they’re serious, has there been paint?” Telling Sanada to stop worrying is like telling the tide to come back out of schedule. “Did you send that email recently? You know I only check my email in Computer Lab in seventh period.”

 

"They're not _racist_ , there's no _paint_ \--it's not a house, Gen, I told you I have an apartment," Yukimura sighs, rolling his eyes. "I probably just forgot to send it, I have to talk about it to so many people here that it blurred together and I thought I told you, too. Don't worry about it. Here, I'll tell you something about Tezuka that you'll probably find at least mildly entertaining."

 

“Tch. _Tezuka_.” Sanada _hates_ that guy, and his smug confidence, and his glasses, and his broad shoulders. “What is it? Did he put out a calendar or something? _Ha_.” If they do, he should get a copy with a foreign credit card, just to _laugh_ at it.

 

Yukimura stares deadpan at his phone for a moment, and considers hanging up. "Ah. No. That's not it. I was going to tell you that he's laughably bad at handling any sort of social event, and this means that sponsors don't like him. What a shock." 

 

“Ha! Serves him right. They can probably just _feel_ how intolerable he is.” With some difficulty, Sanada changes the subject. “Does it ever get warm there, or is it still just rain all the time? All the pictures of London just show men in fashionable coats.” His voice gets soft, and he closes his eyes. “You would look good like that.”

 

"I _do_ look good like that." Hearing Sanada say it, though, is nice, and Yukimura forgives him for his momentarily loss of sanity that always comes with mentioning Tezuka. "It gets very warm, but it's not like Japan. I mostly miss the beach, I'll be honest. Being in the city is nice, but it's not something that you can just kind of walk to after class or whatever, like it was in Kanagawa." 

 

“I can send you pictures. I’m going to the beach for training tomorrow. I’ll run on the sand for both of us.”

 

“You have. Two. Minutes. Remaining. Call the number on the back of your card for assistance. Or. To purchase more minutes.”

 

Sanada sighs. “I have to go. I believe in you, Seiichi.”

 

"Yeah. Okay." It does take some effort, for whatever reason, to keep his voice from sounding a little needy. This isn't fair. This is everything that he wants, and that should make this a lot easier. Maybe, if he gets lucky, he can steal Sanada away at some point. "Good luck with the tennis team. Don't let Mitsuya walk all over you, he's _evil_." 

 

“Yeah. Good luck, Seiichi. You don’t need it.” Sanada hangs up, and holds the phone to his chest for a long minute, jaw clenched. It’s been over a month since he’s felt Yukimura against his own body, since he’s been able to _hold_ him, and...

 

Well. It hadn’t gotten any easier when Yukimura was in the hospital. He can hardly expect it to get easier now.

 

He heads for the lunch line, and slides in next to Kite, pulling out his notes. “He really needs to fix the visibility problem in his classroom setup,” he mutters. “Here’s the left side of the board.”

 

"And the right." At least this arrangement is predictable and soothing in a way, unlike most things that apparently make up Kanagawa. Kite pushes up his glasses. "Honestly, no one else in that class even begins to take as thorough notes as you--except for me, of course. I feel as though we'd be at a serious loss if we relied on anyone else." 

 

He pauses, and idly adds: "International calling can be expensive, can't it?" 

 

Sanada looks up once, sharply, from his notes, before giving a single nod. “Even with an international calling card. It eats up my allowance.” He could probably sound less grumpy about that, but he _saves_ his money. His pen glides smoothly on the paper, copying Kite’s notes. “England is an inconvenient place all around. At least Okinawa is in the same time zone.”

 

"It is, thankfully." Sanada's handwriting is impeccable, and that's a relief. Finally, someone who actually writes as neatly as he does. "Are you planning on visiting England to see any of his tournaments?"

 

It’s strange, talking about Yukimura--who he is, and more importantly, what he _means_ \--to someone who isn’t on the tennis team, doesn’t understand what they went through. Still, it’s...kind of nice, to speak like Yukimura is simply his one most important person, and to have it not questioned. “If I can. Wimbledon, probably, if anything. If I keep my tennis game up, I’ll be joining him for a couple years after high school. Your handwriting is a relief, thank you.”

 

"Likewise." Kite's eyebrows briefly arch over his glasses, and he spares a brief glance up at Sanada. "You're considering going into the pro circuit? I'll admit, I didn't see that as a career that you want to pursue. Not for your lack of ability, but…" 

 

This is something Sanada hasn’t said to anyone before, which he supposes isn’t that surprising. No one else has asked. “I don’t, really. I’d prefer to get my doctorate and become a teacher.” He shrugs, and finishes copying, handing Kite’s notebook back. “He’s in England, though.”

 

Another moment's worth of writing, and Kite passes Sanada's notebook back as well. "You could go to school in England, if that's the draw," he points out. "It isn't as if school would stop him from dragging you into the tennis circuit occasionally, but it seems to kill two birds with one stone."

 

Sanada nods. “Parents, unfortunately. I have been informed that this is not a viable path for me to take.”

 

"Can we trade?" Kite deadpans, flipping a strand of hair out of his face. He _needs_ more time to redo his hairstyle throughout the day, seriously. "My parents would be thrilled if I wanted to leave the country. I, on the other hand, am very content staying here." 

 

“You could go pro in Japan.” Sanada raises an eyebrow, tucking his books away and bowing over his food, saying a brief prayer of thanks before pulling out his chopsticks. “As far as I’m concerned, being a regular on Rikkai is all you need on your resume for that.”

 

"You're not wrong." Kite shrugs. "Maybe that's what I'll do. For the time being, however, it seems that my parents are obsessed with me going to England and making a name for myself there." 

 

“We really could switch.” Sanada unwraps his tiered bento, digging into the pickled vegetables first. “How’s your English?”

 

"Decent enough. Not as good as Yagyuu-kun's--he's _strange_ , isn't he?" Kite hisses underneath his breath, and for not the first time, he craves goya. Damn it all. Even if Rikkai's school lunches are far superior, there's still a certain _lack_ to them.

 

“He’s a nerd. I used to push him into lockers.” It made Yukimura laugh, and Sanada would have done far worse to make that lovely face light up. “English is the only thing he really excels in. Everything else is just middling good across the board, like his tennis.”

 

"Mm. It's his partner that's very good, but refuses to apply himself. Just like so many members of my team," Kite darkly acknowledges. "If you do decide to become the vice-captain, Sanada-kun, you should consider a few more rules to actually make them show up for practice."  

 

“Whipping those jokers into line is half of the reason I accepted the proposal,” Sanada says with a growl, nearly stabbing his chopsticks into his rice. “They’re part of the reason we lost Nationals last year, and they have the gall not to come to practice? Bah.”

 

"If you ever need backup," Kite mildly offers, "I'm always happy to offer my services. I really detest laziness. Speaking of which, do you think that the Beautification Committee would be entirely opposed to a miniature goya field?" 

 

“I have no idea,” Sanada says flatly. “The previous Beautification Committee would have been, but...I don’t know anything about the new one. Can’t you just go buy some goya? How much do you need?”

 

"The joy is in _growing it_ , Sanada-kun. Also," Kite grouses, "goya in Kanagawa is _not_ the same. It's better to import the seeds, and start from scratch." 

 

Sanada shrugs, and pops a slice of kabocha into his mouth. “If they don’t let you, I’m sure my family has some property you can use,” he volunteers. “I can see if there’s any in the area, or you can come tend it on the estate.”

 

The look of utter and complete relief on Kite's face is _very_ telling of how much he _needs_ that goya field back in his life. "This is why you're so reliable, Sanada-kun. Thank you--and if there's anything that I can offer you in return, let me know." 

 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Sanada mutters, tucking into his food with gusto. “Ah, I thought of something. Join the Disciplinary Committee, we need another member and I don’t trust anyone”

 

"Done. This whole school is too flighty, there could be at least a dozen more instances of regulation here." 

 

“You’re not wrong. Give me your class schedule, I’ll write in your patrol duties.” That’s a relief, of course. Sanada packs away his empty bento box, and pulls out the two buns he’d purchased, unwrapping one at a time and eating them with gusto.

 

"…You're actually impressive when it comes to food," Kite idly notes, and passes his schedule over. "Whenever you need me to fill in is fine."

 

Sanada makes quick, fluid notations on the page, exhaling through his nose. “You’ll be very good at it, I have a feeling. Just don’t listen to anyone who tries to pull age rank on you. Refer them to me if that happens, I’ll take care of it.” Unlike in the tennis team, the disciplinary committee had been only too happy to pass over presidency to Sanada as soon as he’d ascended to high school. The disciplinary committee has always been more sensible.

 

Sanada spares one of his many fleeting yearnings for Yukimura, and sighs. “I had really hoped that Mouri-buchou would be the captain we needed,” he admits. “Rikkai suffers without a heart. We found that out last year.”

 

"I can only imagine that it was difficult." Kite doesn't want to think about how Higa must be suffering. Even if he isn't hospitalized, he knows for a _fact_ that he's the only one with any real drive and motivation for tennis at that school. _Teams that we won't be seeing at the National level: Higa._ He heaves a long sigh, and folds up his schedule again once Sanada is done. "Mouri-buchou is distracted. I can understand that, but only to a certain point." 

 

“Understanding it isn’t the same thing as condoning it.” Sanada understands distraction just fine. But if he’s not allowed to spend five hours a day on the phone to England, he fails to see why Mouri should be able to find that kind of time to talk to Kyushu or wherever. “It’s weird. The way he talks. No one should say ‘love you’ that much, it starts to lose all meaning.”

 

"I think," Kite says, "that it might be a nickname of some sort. A strange one, admittedly, but when he starts rattling off in Kansai-ben, it seems more apparent." 

 

“I can never keep up with Kansai-ben,” Sanada admits. “At least _you_ speak properly, there’s no reason he should keep letting it slip.” He’d tapped Yukimura in so often in their first two years whenever he’d needed to talk to Mouri, it feels odd not to be able to.

 

Kite's expression is wry. "Ah, yes. He should remember to speak _properly_." The casual discrimination is always a treat. "Don't worry, Sanada-kun. I'm sure you'll get quite used to it if you have to work with him as vice-captain more often than not." 

 

The bell rings too early, and Sanada sighs, popping the last of his second bun into his mouth and swallowing. “I’m on clean-up in the library today,” he says, fishing out his mask. “Catch you at practice after school.” Strange; he’s not sure when Kite went from being a potential threat to a possible challenge to a wary sort of friend, but he’s not unfond of the change. The gods know he’s seen neither hide nor hair of Renji in the last several weeks.

 

A brief nod is all Kite offers, and he settles for tucking a few loose strands of his hair back rather than attempting to rush to the bathroom and fix it in a few hurried minutes. "See you later, then, Sanada-kun." This could be a _worse_ sort of friendship. Sanada, unfortunately, would not make a good pirate wench. 

 

The next person to call Yukimura’s phone, staying up until the middle of the night in Japan to make sure that he doesn’t wake up anyone in England, is Marui. His foot bounces as he waits for the stupid thing to connect, idly sorting through the several candies he’s lined up to eat during the phone conversation. If Yukimura can’t help him with this problem, _no_ one can.

 

It takes a couple of rings before Yukimura picks up, but once he does, it's nothing but excitement in his voice. "Bunta! You haven't called in awhile, and this is _perfect_ timing, do you know how bored I was?" 

 

 _Very_ , he thinks to himself, glowering at the flower garden in his window that could be bigger. It's growing, yes, but that's _not_ the point. His garden back home is probably very overgrown, very in need of weeding… _ugh_. 

 

“Sweet!” Marui sinks back into his chair, resting his feet up on his desk (on his homework, whatever). “Is England like, super boring? I thought London was supposed to have all that fun culture and shit, did you already see it all? How’s the food?”

 

"It's really fun, but it's only so much fun when you're seeing it all by yourself, you know?" Yukimura sighs, sprawling himself back over his bed to stare up at the ceiling. "I just wish I had someone to keep me company. Agents are all well and good, but not when they're bugging me nonstop about business things and…ugh, anyway, yeah, the food's good. You'd lose your mind over the desserts." 

 

Marui’s stomach rumbles so loud he’s pretty sure Yukimura could hear it without the phone. “Ahhh, I’m gonna _have_ to come visit you sometime, I swear. Hey, hey, Yukimura-buchou, I need your advice on something that _only you_ can help me with.”

 

That _immediately_ makes Yukimura perk up. "Well, I _am_ the best," he says logically, rolling over onto his side and firmly clutching his phone. "What is it? Is it a tennis thing?" 

 

“It’s....a tennis _player_ thing.” Marui twists a lock of hair around his finger, popping a cream-filled roll into his mouth. “No homo.”

 

"Uh…huh." Yukimura's lips twist into a slow smirk. "Which one?" 

 

“Kite Eishirou. Buchou, I have _plans_.” Marui chews on his lower lip for a minute, and admits, “But they’re really terrible and I need new plans, please.”

 

" _Higa's_ old captain? Really? Heh, Renji told me that he and Sanada spar every morning, I wish I could see that," Yukimura wistfully says. "Mmnn, well, why don't you tell me what your old plans were? I can modify them." 

 

“Uh...be really cute. And manly.” Marui opens a package of M&Ms. “But that’s not working, because he didn’t notice.”

 

"Did you actually _talk_ to him?" 

 

Marui turns that over in his mind, frowning. “I suppose the answer would be _no_. I mean, we talk at practice sometimes. Listen, have you seen his butt?”

 

"I--yes. _Listen_ , Bunta, you _have_ to really talk to him! Remember, we went over this with girls before, too. They're never going to pay attention to you unless you actually talk to them." 

 

Marui huffs. “At least with Kite-kun I can talk to him about tennis.” He thinks for a minute, and the candy disappears. “Maybe I should ask him to teach me tennis or something? No, I already know tennis, shit.”

 

"Singles." Logically, that's the answer. "You're a fantastic doubles player, but less of a singles player. He's a good singles player. Ask him for lessons to up your singles game." 

 

“Um, I’m pretty sure I’m a great singles player?” Marui points out. “I beat Fuji Shuusuke last year at the National finals!”

 

"Bunta. I'm gonna really need you to be _honest_ here for a moment." 

 

Honesty is no fun. “ _You_ said he dropped out because he was scared of me,” Marui mutters rebelliously. “That _could_ be true.”

 

"Do you have any idea how many steroids I was on?" Yukimura exasperatedly replies. "Come on, Bunta, I'm trying to give you at least _something_ to really talk to him about. You didn't make the regulars as a singles player, did you? It's your chance to have him lovingly touch your arms and guide you through shots and stand behind you and let you feel his muscles and the way he moves when he serves--" He's probably digressing. 

 

Marui grumbles a little, but he _did_ call for advice, and Yukimura is good at making big scary burly tennis men touch him all over. “I _guess_ I could do that. He’s a really sexy singles player. Ugh, you need to come back just to watch him and Sanada fight, it’s really unfair. Want me to take video?”

 

"Yes. Please." He's not going to think about that right now. He's not going to think about how _nice_ that much be to watch. Yukimura sighs, and briefly stuffs his face down into a pillow. "If you're really sweet to him, he'll _totally_ give you lessons. I bet he already thinks you're cute, especially if you act dedicated about tennis and things like that." 

 

“It’s either that or watch Jackal totally fail at accepting dates from the girls who come into his restaurant,” Marui gloats. “It’s hilarious, I just keep setting him up and he just keeps _missing_. Hey, are there a lot of pretty girls in England?”

 

"They're cute enough, I guess." Yukimura chews slowly on his lower lip, annoyed. "My agent keeps trying to set me up with a few of them, but I don't want to. I probably should, but…eh." 

 

“Yeah...” Marui fiddles with an empty wrapper. He hasn’t brought this next part up to anyone, even Jackal, but Yukimura...Yukimura might understand. “A girl asked me out. I turned her down. Ugh, I’m really mad at myself.”

 

"Eh? Was she weird? Or was she just not…" Yukimura trails off, thinking of the best way to phrase it. "Well, you know, we all have high standards."

 

“Yeah.” Marui is pretty sure that no one else is allowed to know that he’d picked the idea of dating Kite Eishirou over the certainty of going out with cute Chihiko in his math class. “I’ll try the tennis thing. You’re the best, Buchou.”

 

"Send me updates! And video," Yukimura insists, giving his phone a shake as if that'll make Marui feel it, too. "And cake. At some point, you know, when you're done being cute with Kite." 

 

“You _know_ I only use ingredients that need to be refrigerated,” Marui says firmly. “I’ll try to look into refrigerated post. It might take me a while to save up, they’ve got a lot of _really_ cool new games and sweets at the arcade.”

 

"If it melts, I'll eat it still! Bunnnta, please, I'm going to die." 

 

Marui sighs, thinking of what could possibly happen to his cake in the mail. “I’ll give it a shot. You have to eat the whole thing, though! And you said you’d send me pictures of Wimbledon _and_ sweets shops--oh crap, I do have to go.” He hangs up, holding the phone up before his brother can whine about _needing_ to call his tutor for the homework. It’s that or help him, and Marui is really busy with the Internet.

 

~

 

Mouri-buchou will _not_ be pried away from that phone, come hell or high water. 

 

It's obvious that Mitsuya is at his wit's end. It's obvious that he's about to reach over and yank the phone away and step on it afterwards. There's also the fact that the two of them getting into a fight over something like that is really going to end poorly for the whole team, and the tension that it causes makes practice something close to hell throughout the entire day. 

 

Kite decides to just…not think about it. Easier to ignore it and far easier to just practice and keep his head down at this point, because adding to the fire will just make Sanada's job more difficult, too. Anything _he_ suggests is immediately shot down for the most part, and that's why he ultimately stopped bothering after his first week at this school.

 

It's actually far more entertaining to watch Mitsuya disinterestedly call Niou and Yagyuu out on their usual switching strangeness, and for both of them to end up getting pissed off about it. That goes on until practice is over, and Kite decides that it's probably just going to be easier to avoid the clubhouse and keep hitting rather than try to deal with that much complaining and whining all in one place.

 

An actual practice partner would be nice. A wall will suffice in the meantime. 

 

“Oi, Kite-kun!” Marui bounces his racquet on his shoulder as he strolls onto the practice court, looking around to see--yes, wonder of wonders, they’re _actually_ alone. He’s not entirely sure what he did to get that lucky, but hell if he won’t take that opportunity. “I’ve been watching you play. You’re great in singles.” 

 

Shit, _why_ is this so much easier than talking to girls? Every time he tries that, Marui winds up wanting to run for the hills, join witness protection, and hide under a blanket all at once.

 

Kite pauses, straightens, and pushes his glasses up as he catches the ball he was about to hit at the wall again. "Ah…Marui-kun, wasn't it." He _thinks_ he has this one's name right. He was a regular in Rikkai's middle school team, he's sure of that, but this year…not so much. Hm. "You used to play doubles, didn't you?" 

 

“I _do_ play doubles.” Marui could be a little less sore about that. “I’m just...yeah, thinking about going to singles. My doubles partner has a part-time job,” he explains, not wanting Kite to think he’s some sort of unfaithful tennis mistress. “I heard you trained up your whole team from nothing, right?” Good lord Kite has nice arms.

 

"That would be the disconnect," Kite says, mostly to himself. "I just haven't seen much of you lately, I'm afraid." He pauses, considers turning back to the wall to keep playing with it as they talk, but refrains. That would be rude. "I was the one that started the tennis team at Higa, yes." 

 

“Cool.” Marui bounces a little on the balls of his feet. “Hey, we didn’t get to play in the rankings. Want to have a practice match? Loser buys soda?” Vending machines are convenient.

 

Marui is short, and very bouncy, and if Kite recalls correctly (he usually does), very much a serve and volley player. This should not be difficult, and he _did_ want a practice partner of sorts. "By all means." Kite's eyebrows arch high. "But I'm not going to let you win, Marui-kun." 

 

Marui pops a chunk of bubble gum in his mouth, and saunters over to the court. “I hope you’re ready to enjoy my genius skills, Kite-kun,” he says very seriously, and settles into a waiting crouch, looking for the ace.

 

Marui is also, apparently, shockingly cute, and that's slightly unfair. 

 

He is not, however, cute enough for Kite to have mercy upon him. Or, perhaps it's more a matter of him being so cute that Kite does _not_ want to have mercy upon him in the slightest. This is a privilege that Marui's being granted. The first serve blazes past him, landing precisely inside of the baseline. 

 

That is precisely, Marui thinks darkly, the kind of serve that should have been returned by Jackal. _Come on, Bun-Bun,_ he tells himself sternly, _you’re the fast one. You’re faster than that ball. Next time, or the time after, you’ll get there._

 

“Nice one, Kite-kun,” he calls over the net, switching to the other side of the court. “Fifteen-love, let’s go!”

 

The next serve is just as blindingly fast. Marui can _see_ it, though, and he _leaps_ , moving as fast as he can in a sprint, just barely getting his racquet in the right spot in time. At least, the racquet touches it this time, even if the shot goes out. It’s progress, and Marui shakes off the loss of the point. “Thirty-love, come on!”

 

 _Well,_ Kite thinks to himself with a sigh, _at least he's persistent._

 

That's more than he can say for some of his old team members on any day, and it's more than he can say about anyone on the Rikkai regulars this year except for Sanada, and to an extent, Yanagi and Mitsuya. This one at least _tries_. "Assume that it's going to hit further back on the baseline than you're used to," Kite firmly tells him, "so step back. Most tennis players of our age don't hit as deep as I can, so you aren't used to it." 

 

With that bit of advice, he serves again, just as deep to the baseline as before, just as fast. 

 

Marui leaps before Kite is even done hitting the ball this time. _That_ puts him in the right position far better than Kite’s advice (which he has to grudgingly admit is good). He lobs the ball over the net, landing on his feet and immediately searching for the next return. “You’re pretty arrogant, Kite-kun!” he calls, a fierce grin stealing over his face. “I hope the rest of your game backs it up!”

 

"A lob is a very poor way to return a serve in a singles match, Marui-kun," Kite tosses back over, and with swift precision, catches that lob just after it bounces. It skims the net, but with enough momentum behind it, it still slices sharply back to the baseline. "It's especially poor when you aren't comfortable sitting back from the net." 

 

“Shit,” Marui returns cheerfully, and manages a quick somersault that takes him where he needs to be. It’s not quite enough, and he winds up with banged up knees and an empty racquet before getting to his feet, casually wiping the blood off his knees and tossing the ball back. “Forty-love, Kite-kun!” That lob would have been _perfect_ if Jackal had been back here, the big stupid ramen-cooking idiot. Marui makes a mental note to get sympathy cake out of him later.

 

Unsurprisingly, this is quite easy, but not altogether unsatisfying. 

 

Marui _does_ learn. He does take a few points because of that, and Kite does like that. More importantly… "That's 6-0," Kite lightly points out, shaking a few escaping hairs out of his face as he walks to the net. No time to fix his hair, _again_. "A good match, though, Marui-kun." 

 

Marui manages to keep his hand steady as he shakes Kite’s, nice and firm. “You’re great,” he says honestly, mildly proud of himself for not being upset. “Want to teach me singles in the afternoons?” Not quite as good as _Want to let me touch your butt all the time?_ but he’s getting there.

 

It's the first time that _anyone_ has legitimately wanted to spend time with him in a way that isn't school, or…any of the things that he and Sanada end up with, and truth be told, Kite isn't sure he can really count sparring or offers to let him plant goya on his family's property. He grasps Marui's hand tightly. "I'm not going to be nice," he warns, hoping that Marui doesn't care. "I've been told I'm a very strict teacher." 

 

“Good, I’m a terrible student.” Marui beams, and squeezes back just as tight.

 

Ah, maybe too tight. Whoops. Marui hastily loosens his grip, shrugging and lacing his hands together behind his head. “You’ll just have to whip me into shape on the court, eh? I want to be on the regulars at the next ranking match, being an alternate is crap.”

 

"I don't think you were a terrible student." Kite remembers, belatedly, to drop his hand, and shoves up his glasses instead from where sweat makes them slip down his nose. "You took direction well, for the most part. My old teammates from Higa--" Ah. No. Marui doesn't want to hear about that. "At any rate, even being an alternate on a team like Rikkai is outstanding." 

 

“It’s not as great after being a regular,” Marui sighs, and shrugs. “Come on, I’ll buy you a soda. Uh, that vending machine doesn’t work,” he lies quickly, seeing an opportunity and taking it. “Walk with me to the school entrance, there’s a way better one there anyway.” God, so _smooth_!

 

"It's admirable that you want to learn to play singles as much as you do," Kite carefully offers as he steps around the net, "but you know, I'm sure there are plenty of players that would be interested in being your full-time doubles partner." Bringing up the fact that there are three very taken singles spots on the team already is probably moot. 

 

Marui rolls his eyes. “Sure, we’ll just knock off the two scariest doubles teams currently active in the circuit, that’ll be _way_ easier than waiting for Mouri-buchou to start skipping practice again.”

 

"Considering how little your Niou and Yagyuu pair seem to show up to practice," Kite pointedly replies, "there might be an equal opportunity available."

 

Marui waves a hand. “First of all, they’re not _my_ Niou and Yagyuu,” he says, shouldering his bookbag and racquet, trying not to grouse that he doesn’t have Jackal to carry it for him. “I don’t care if they get bumped off. But second of all, they’re only clowning around because no one is making them be serious. Either someone will--and they’ll be unbeatable--or they’ll get really bored and fuck off and do something else. Then...” He frowns, thinking. “Probably Mitsuya and Inui, and Sanada and Yanagi would play doubles. Or if Mitsuya gets his claws into Sanada, that way around. Sanada plays great doubles with nerds.”

 

 _Hopefully, Mitsuya won't get his claws into Sanada_ , Kite darkly thinks, twitching a little at the thought. There's just something _strange_ about that guy. 

 

More important is the fact that Marui actually has a head on his shoulders about this sort of thing, and that's a breath of fresh air. So much for the idea of Rikkai loyalty. Apparently, that was just to Yukimura, and the rest of them are all about usurping when he's gone. "You're rather merciless," Kite says, putting his racquet away and slinging his bag over his shoulders. "That's good, if you want to play singles here." 

 

Marui beams. “Loyalty is for winners. And Sanada, I guess, but he’s just a dumb samurai.” _Please don’t already be mooning over Sanada. That would suck in like eight ways._ “Do you want me to pay you for lessons? I have my allowance, but I can’t start until later, I want to buy a CD.” Maybe Jackal will buy it for him.

 

Kite just blinks at him. "You don't have to pay me," he says, honestly a bit baffled by the concept. "Honestly, I'm just glad to have someone to practice with. Everyone else is…busy. Even Sanada-kun." _Busy with their own friends. Or their own activities. Or anything else, like international calls._  

 

“Yeah? Awesome!” That settles that, as far as Marui is concerned. Not paying for things is his favorite way of buying. Although... “Ehh, I guess even I’d feel bad for taking advantage of you,” he says, and nods. “That’s settled. I’ll bake you a cake when I get on the regulars. It’s gonna be, like, the best cake there is. What’s your favorite flavor?”

 

It's offensive that Marui is this cute. When has anyone ever offered to bake him a cake? Maybe Kai, but that was a disaster, and they don't talk about that. "If you want. Ah--hmm. How difficult is it to make a goya cake, I wonder…" 

 

Marui sticks out his tongue, making a face. “A goya cake? Eugh, gross! Hey, are you making fun of me? Is this Okinawan humor?” He pokes Kite in the cheek, no matter that he sort of needs to reach up to do it. “The bitter flavor would totally not work, it’s not like--” He frowns, thinking suddenly. “I _did_ bake a tomato cake once. That turned out...huh. Hmm. No, it would....hmm.” He’s gone.

 

"I'm perfectly capable of being the taste-tester if you need to experiment," Kite offers up, not batting an eye as he steers Marui off of the courts entirely. "Goya might be bitter, but it's actually quite pleasant if utilized correctly. Have you ever had goya ice cream?" 

 

Marui’s eyes widen. “There’s a kind of ice cream that I haven’t tried?” he demands, and clings to Kite’s arm tighter than is really necessary. “Take me, I want to try the goya ice cream right now!”

 

"I…hmm. I have yet to find someone in Kanagawa that actually sells it," Kite admits, effortlessly letting Marui dangle off of his arm. "Which I find very stressful. Do you _know_ what it's like to be deprived of one's favorite food?"

 

“That sounds really bad and I’m not at all interested in it happening to me,” Marui says seriously, and yanks Kite in another direction. “We’re going to _my_ market. I’ve never found a food that they don’t have.” Whatever other plans Kite might have for the evening don’t matter, obviously.

 

 _Homework_ and _fixing my hair_ and at least a dozen other things flit through his mind, but Marui is actually fairly strong for his size, and that could be worse. "Well--all right," Kite manages. He could hate less that he's being dragged off on what apparently is going to be a magical adventure where there is food and possibly goya. This is probably the best thing that has happened in Kanagawa so far, truth be told. "I didn't realize you were such a cooking enthusiast." 

 

“I would choose food over tennis any day,” Marui says bluntly, adjusting his grip so it will be more comfortable for dragging Kite halfway across the city. “I’ll _probably_ wind up being a chef someday. Ugh, you’re _really_ new if I haven’t even cooked for you yet, I’m gonna fix that today, the market is right by my house. You’re coming for dinner.”

 

"I--am I?" This is new, for Kanagawa. Good, but new, and tension unravels in between his shoulders. "Are you sure that's fine? Not that I don't want to taste your cooking, of course, but--"

 

“It’s fine. I’m the one who cooks dinner, so I get to say who comes. House rules.” Marui doesn’t let up in the slightest on Kite’s arm, tugging him towards the train station. “Do you have a pass? Ha, I don’t even know where you live.” Talking about food is a really easy way to relax, apparently. Marui files that away for further reference.

 

"Of course I have a pass," Kite exasperatedly replies, coming to a stop briefly to dislodge Marui, and subsequently, all of the things that he's carrying that just happen to keep banging into Kite at every single turn. He shoulders both Marui's school bag and tennis bag, and offers his arm up again afterwards. "There. Now you may resume dragging me."

 

Marui’s eyes light up, and he takes Kite’s arm more firmly, and also far more comfortably. “This is great. You should do this every day as long as I’m feeding you.” Whoops, that’s super-level homo, but Kite seems so _cool_ , maybe he’ll let it slide. There’s just something great about having a big strong man carry his bags, especially in a subservient way. Marui is a man who knows his tastes.

 

"If you're feeding me," Kite wryly allows, following along without any protests. "Specifically, though, if you manage to find any good goya around here. Kanagawa seems…sparse, when it comes to that." 

 

“We have mail that goes out four times a day,” Marui points out, “and it’s only a two-and-a-half-hour flight to Okinawa. I’m pretty sure I can find some of your weird bitter melon. They have _breadfruit_ at this market, seriously.” He has to let go of Kite when they go through the turnstile, which is just a momentary difficulty, and he grabs his arm again right afterwards. No use letting a lovely muscle like that go to waste.

 

"…What in the world is _breadfruit?_ " Kite asks, somewhat mystified and horrified all at once, and honestly, he could hate that Marui keeps grabbing his arm like that more. "I'll leave it up to you, then. You seem to be quite the expert."

 

Marui winks up at him. “You have good instincts, leaving it up to me like that. Don’t worry, you’ll be rewarded. With cake.” 

 

Why, why, _why_ is it so easy to flirt when he’s talking about food?? Marui could _kick_ himself for all the times he’s sputtered and stammered his way through stupid conversations about just about everything else in the world when he could have been talking about _food_ the whole time.

 

 _Damn it, he's cute_ , Kite thinks, going right back to as horrified as he was about breadfruit--at himself, mind, not at Marui, though levels of being that adorable should never exist in this world…

 

There has to be a rule about being attracted to previous Rikkai regulars. A clause, something, that prevents the new guys from muscling their way in. Kite's sure of that, and that's why a sense of dread falls over him. _Shit, shit, I'm done for_. "I…good. I like cake." So _fucking_ smooth. This is why _he_ never had a boyfriend in Okinawa.

 

“You’d better,” Marui says seriously, “because that’s one of my major forms of currency. Cute tricks and cake, that’s most of what I’ve got to offer.” _Not like you, broad muscles and scary tennis and perfect grades and murder in your eyes, yesssss._

 

"Is this part of a Rikkai initiation?" Kite just has to ask, suddenly unsure if he should feel very included or very terrified now. "Have you made a cake for everyone? Are there other hazing tactics involved, or is this all supposed to be a positive experience? I've heard _stories_ about Rikkai, Marui-kun."

 

Marui blinks, suddenly not sure how good at flirting he actually is. “Uh, I bake cakes for people I like,” he volunteers, a little uncertainly. “And I’ve liked most of my teammates, so...I dunno, it’s not official or anything.” He tugs Kite onto the train, and adds, “We’ve heard stories about Higa, too.”

 

"Oh, good. About the initiation part, I should say." Kite can breathe a bit more easily, and a sideways glance towards a particularly obnoxious looking high schooler from a _public school_ actually opens up a seat for Marui in short order. "I hope the stories that you've heard about Higa are equal parts good, and horrific." 

 

Marui plops immediately down in the empty seat with a huge smile up at Kite. “Usually that you’re a psycho who will stop at nothing to win,” he says cheerfully, “with purple hair and _great_ fashion sense. That the kind of rumor you were thinking of?”

 

"That _is_ one hell of a rumor," Kite agrees, silently preening, and more outwardly preening when he tucks a strand of hair back behind his ear. Now if only his hair looked _good_ right now. What a shame. "Psycho seems like a strong word. I prefer 'determined to win at all costs.'"

 

“Nah,” Marui says, stretching out his legs rudely, “you prefer ‘psycho.’ That way people will think you’re too scary to be reasoned with. Everyone says lame shit like they’re determined to win at all costs, it doesn’t really mean anything.”

 

"Mmm. Someone that prefers to win by force, then," Kite lowly corrects instead, not even swaying when the train jerks and jolts as it accelerates. "A very decisive victory is much more satisfying, I think. Wouldn't you enjoy being able to crush someone in a singles match, Marui-kun?" 

 

Marui blows a slow bubble, looking up at Kite as it pops and he sucks it back into his mouth. “I didn’t get to be the top serve and volley player in the country without a couple crushing wins, Kite-kun,” he says, mild with an edge. Deltoids are all well and good, but hey, he’s not _bad_ at tennis. “I beat Fuji Shuusuke at Nationals in singles.”

 

 _That was attractive until you mentioned that particular match._ "Marui-kun," Kite says levelly, "Fuji Shuusuke forfeited." 

 

“Yeah,” Marui says, put-out and annoyed that he’d been forced to bring it up, “because he was like, _really_ scared of me.”

 

"…All right." Kite's just going to let him have that one. "Well, then. You still need to be better than that, but I'm sure it won't be terribly difficult for you." 

 

Marui blows another bubble. “This is a much better direction for this conversation, Kite-kun. Hey, are you okay with trains? Do they have trains in Okinawa?”

 

"Where I was…no." How to describe that he was in probably the tiniest damned village for kilometers around, and there was _literally_ nothing to do but play tennis and farm goya? "But I don't mind trains." 

 

“Hmm, good. I’ve never been to Okinawa, do you just walk everywhere? Oh, this is our stop.” Marui stands, and firmly attaches himself to Kite’s arm again, dragging him off the train almost too late.

 

"Where I was, yes." Kite briefly adjusts all of the bags on his opposite shoulder, but otherwise, doesn't miss a beat from Marui's dragging. "It's much hotter there than it is here. I'm fairly certain most of you would melt." 

 

“I don’t mind the heat,” Marui says cheerfully. “I like hot days. I’m just bad at being outside in the sun and doing work. My skin crisps up until I’m basically a lobster, not all nice and brown like you.” Yes, stopped himself from saying _sexy brown_ just in time, that’s super homo and probably a little racist.

 

"You just need a hat. A big one," Kite amends firmly. "And a lot of sunscreen. Possibly an umbrella, too. You're too pale for that kind of heat, I'm afraid."

 

“Would I be cute in a big hat and a lot of sunscreen?” Marui muses, and looks at himself in a storefront window. “Yeah,” he decides, “I’d be really cute in a big hat. Wow, I should get a big hat.”

 

"If you end up coming down to Okinawa, I'll make sure that you have a big hat and a lot of sunscreen." That's never going to happen, but it certainly does sound appealing. Introducing someone like Marui to his own family--they'd be thrilled, undoubtedly, but it's still _never going to happen_. "In the meantime, perhaps we could test it out on one of the beaches around here. I've been meaning to go, but there's been no time."  Now _that_ was smooth.

 

Marui blinks slowly, and his hand curls more around Kite’s arm. “We’re going to the beach, _definitely_ ,” he says, turning down a side street towards his market. “You must be homesick and stuff, I’ll make sure you’re plenty distracted.” _Shit, are we dating yet? Or is this just super high-level flirting? I’ve never gotten this far!_

 

"I…well. Good. I could use a few distractions." Another little tense bit of muscle unknots in his spine. Thank god for that. "Going to school here is _stressful_ ," he mutters, shoving up his glasses with his other hand as he admits something that he has never, ever wanted to. "Especially when I'm in several of the same classes as Sanada-kun. You wouldn't know it just by looking at him, but he can be _very_ high strung." 

 

“Right? Right?” Marui huffs out a breath, spitting his gum into a storm drain and popping another piece, chewing angrily. “He likes to think he’s so _zen_ , just because he gets up at four to meditate. He’s just mad that he isn’t getting it from--”

 

He nearly swallows his gum, realizing what he was on the verge of saying, and looks up guiltily. “Whoops, forgot who I was talking to, sorry.”

 

Kite draws in a slow, even breath. _This_ is very much what he expects from any and all Rikkai team members at this point, sadly enough, but it's only now that he feels the need to start actually be _included_ in their insider gossip. Hasn't he been here long enough? "Marui-kun," he calmly says, "you _do_ realize that I _know_ about that." _I feel like most of Rikkai does in general, even if they aren't on the tennis team._

 

“Well,” Marui says frankly, “yeah. But we don’t, like, _talk_ about it.” He frowns, thinking about it, then shrugs. “But you’re on the team, even if it’s not the old team, so, sure. Sanada’s just mad because he’s not getting it up the ass from Yukimura twice a day and three times on his birthday.”

 

It takes effort to strangle down a laugh. Even _knowing_ that already, it's still at least a dozen times funnier when Marui says it. "Ah. Yes. He, uh. Definitely is high strung because of that, as I said before. I suggested that he think about going to school in England, but that's apparently not going to happen…" 

 

“Ha! Have you met his dad?” Marui shudders all the way down to his toes. “He’d probably have you deported back to Okinawa as a bad influence if he knew you said that. He barely lets Sanada play _tennis_.”

 

" _Really_." That sounds at least a dozen times more horrible than Kite can imagine, and he rethinks ever complaining about his parents pushing him to do _new and exciting things_. "If that's the case…do they know about--well." 

 

“You knew,” Marui says dryly, “and you were in Okinawa. They _live_ with him. _They know_ , I think they’re just hoping it’ll go away now that the bad influence is in England.” Marui shakes his head. “Dumb. Ooh, my store!”

 

 _Fair enough, everyone that plays tennis that's around our age knows_ , Kite wants to say, but it's so obvious that it's not worth it. Instead, he just lets Marui pull him along, because that's cute, and he finds it shockingly charming that Marui is so very, _very_ educated when it comes to food (and apparently, wants to cook for him-- _regularly)._

 

"I have recipes," Kite idly offers, "if you're ever curious about the _other_ ways that you can cook goya." 

 

“I’m curious about any way I can cook anything,” Marui says seriously. “I hope you’re serious, because I’m gonna make you teach me those recipes. Are they old family recipes?” he asks, piling his little shopping basket with goya and esoteric, unmarked powders, flours, and seasonings. “Because those are my favorite kinds.”

 

"They are. Some of them are old guarded secrets." Kite hesitates, and then shrugs mentally, deciding that this has already been a day of odd flirtations that he's sure have mostly failed. "But I'll share them with you, on one condition." 

 

Marui’s eyes are wide, and his hands are wandering, gripping Kite’s arms without caring, because _old family recipes_. “Yeah? What condition?” _How many cakes do I need to make you, because you could hand me ingredients wearing nothing but an apron WOW MENTAL IMAGE shut up Bun-Bun and listen!_

 

"You, ah. Actually need to come down to Okinawa at some point." There are a few other things he could ramble on about--tennis practice? actually showing his family that he can make friends in Kanagawa? whatever--but that's all stupid, not quite as smooth. "That's it." 

 

Marui shuts his mouth, and squeaks slightly. He squeezes Kite’s arms, holding eye contact, and then slowly lets go, holding a hand out to shake instead. “Deal. It’s only fair that you put me up, after I’m going to be feeding you so much.” Because Kite is going to become a fixture at his house if he has anything to say about it, in his _bedroom_ if he’s lucky. “What else do I need to buy?”

 

Kite firmly grasps Marui's hand, squeezing before releasing it. "I have a mental list," he gravely says. "It's not that long, thankfully, but I think you'll find it appealing."

 

“I sure do find it appealing,” Marui says without really thinking, and can’t even be fucked to correct himself when Kite has such a _nice_ grip, and would look so _nice_ facedown. “Lead the way, Chef Jr.”

 


	6. Shiraishi & Osamu

It's a good week, theoretically. 

 

Osamu finds that hard to believe, considering that he's perpetually hassled by the idea of _I'm sleeping with a sixteen year old._ No, it's more than that. He's perpetually hassled by the idea of _I'm_ dating _a six teen year old_ , because under no certain circumstances does Shiraishi allow him to forget that aspect of it. 

 

He could hate it more, truthfully. 

 

He expects it to be more awkward, during practices. Instead, Shiraishi keeps a shockingly cool head, and acts so… _normal,_ still. That makes Osamu relax in turn, and have a moment to breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, this will actually pan out well enough for the time being. 

 

That's the thought, at least, until that shockingly good, almost blissful week is cut short upon arriving at his apartment, and finding that his keys simply don't work. 

 

It dawns on him, then, that his week has been so good and so _pleasant_ because he's been ignoring his phone. 

 

 _Fuck_ , Osamu cheerfully thinks, sagging back against the door of his very locked apartment, and begrudgingly, grimacing the whole way, dials the number that he's been ignoring for a…shit, it's almost been _over_ a week now, hasn't it? 

 

“Yuu-kun.”

 

The voice on the other end of the line is pleasant, calm, and unsurprised. Sakaki Tarou is good at that voice. He reclines in a leather armchair that’s surprisingly uncomfortable for its price (the high cost of form over function), and lets his eyes track over the nightlife of Tokyo outside his window. “I’m guessing you’re locked out of your apartment. How _very_ inconvenient for you. Nearly as inconvenient as being stood up for a straight week.”

 

If there's one thing Osamu honestly and completely _hates_ , it's the act of saving face. He's gotten good at it, admittedly, but in this circumstance, with _that_ name ringing in his ears…yeah, not so much. "I…sorry," he lamely says, shutting his eyes. "One of my students--he's got it in his head to start training for the Olympics, and that kinda sidetracked me. I forgot I put my phone on silent, and it kinda…stayed that way." Is that plausible? Probably, if he plays up the space cadet card enough.

 

Sakaki pours himself a glass of wine, swirling it gently in the palm of his hand, letting it breathe. Then he takes a sip, in no hurry to reply. The wine is bright for its years--disappointing, but he’s been disappointed several times as of late, and this is nothing new. “It won’t happen again,” he says mildly after a second sip. “Neither of us are men of excuses and sniveling. A phone you don’t use is a phone you don’t need, don’t you agree?”

 

"I'm not sniveling," Osamu sulkily mutters, opening his eyes to irritably stare up at the brim of his hat. Damn it all. He was _hoping_ for a relaxing end of his week, but now it's pretty damn obvious that he's gonna have to get on a _train_. "Anyway, yeah. It's not gonna happen again." 

 

“You do so always ask me for more _notice_ when your presence is required, Yuu-kun,” Sakaki says with a smile he knows Osamu can hear in his voice. “I was endeavoring to give you just that. Tomorrow night, seven, at the usual location. Don’t bother coming prepared, everything will be provided for you here. Shinkansen or car?”

 

Oh, he has _options_ this time. "…What's more private, I wonder; I guess the car," Osamu sighs out, pulling his hat off entirely. "Um--not to be pushy or anything, but if you want me to come tomorrow night, is there a way for me to get into my apartment _tonight_ , or…"

 

“The key to your new locks is on the ledge behind the lamp,” Sakaki says patiently. “Spares are inside your bedroom, under the pillow. Is there anything else you need before we see each other in person?”

 

 _A punch to the face._ "Nope," Osamu _cheerfully_ offers up, sliding away from the door and stretching up onto his toes to snag the keys in question. Maybe if he had thought this through, he would have found this before calling, but nope, not a chance. "I think I'm good, thanks." _Now just to rearrange my entire practice schedule with Kurarin for the whole damned weekend._  

 

There’s a slight pause, then the words, “I expect you to be terribly enchanting as always, Yuu-kun. We’re both far more comfortable when you’re a delight.”

 

"You're joking, right? I'm _always_ a delight." Osamu half-expects something really, really weird for him to be waiting inside of his apartment, but upon entry, it all looks as thankfully boring as per usual. There's one relief he's allowed, at least. 

 

“Excellent. You know how I love it when I’m not disappointed.” Sakaki hangs up. There’s nothing else to say that won’t be settled by actions tomorrow night--and he has a car to arrange, after all.

 

There's never anything delightful about talking to _Sakaki_ , unfortunately, which is the thing that bugs Osamu the most. 

 

 _Welp_ , he wearily thinks, _better start some important tasks now_. Shaving comes to mind, what a pain in the ass…

 

**To: Kurarin**

**From: Samu-chan**

**Subject: Practice things**

**Yo** **♥** **can we reschedule your practice session for earlier tomorrow? Got an old friend that wants to see me in Tokyo and I'm not allowed to show him up, apparently!**

 

There's no helping the stab of guilt that brings about, but Osamu figures he's a liar in about a dozen other ways, so how can this possibly be much worse?

 

**To: Samu-chan** **♥**

**From: Kurarin** **♥**

**Subject: Practice**

**Hi! Sure! I’ll just cram up on my studies this weekend and get ahead once you’re gone. I can be at the courts as early as 5am....or I could just stay over? >.<**

 

**PS: You most likely mean “stand him up,” not “show him up.”** **♥** **♥** **♥** **♥** **♥**

 

Osamu just sighs down at his phone, weighing the pros and cons. His own, selfish little urge to see the brat does a pretty good job of disintegrating his logical side, which is a serious problem. 

 

**To: Kurarin**

**From: Samu-chan**

**Subject: Re: Practice**

**5am is waaaay too early!!! but if you want to come over, you still can.**

 

And he still has to shave--in several places. That's gonna be a conversation. Hm.

 

**To: Samu-chan** **♥**

**From: Kurarin** **♥**

**Subject:** **♥** **Tonight** **♥**

**I’ll bring food for tonight and the morning. I forget how you like your eggs? According to my mother’s books this is very important for a relationship! So I am bringing eggs. Is there any problem with me being there in about 35-39 minutes?**

 

 _That's so many hearts, though,_ Osamu thinks with some dismay, and just gives up trying to process it. 

 

**To: Kurarin**

**From: Samu-chan**

**Subject: why eggs**

**i don't think eggs are that important?? you can surprise me, and come over whenever, i might be in the shower, jsyk**

 

**To: Samu-chan** **♥**

**From: Kurarin** **♥**

**Subject: ????**

**Maybe eggs are important because they’re a golden treasure? wwwww I’ll be there soon!** **♥**

 

First he has to make a bento for both of them--perhaps more like a picnic--perhaps...

 

Eventually, Shiraishi packs a backpack full of all the ingredients he needs to make several meals, and stops by the conbini on the way for more ingredients (and eggs). He rides his bicycle carefully, parking in the rack at Osamu’s apartment, and shows up to find the door unlocked. There’s a certain thrill in going in--like he’s expected, _welcomed_ \--and he unpacks in the kitchen, humming softly to himself while he does. This might be a bachelor’s apartment, but that doesn’t mean it has to be unlivable. 

 

(The sound of the shower is dreadfully tempting, but what if that wasn’t the intended goal? Then he’d just be interrupting. No matter how much thinking about Osamu in the shower is...distracting, to say the least, he can wait for a proper invitation.)

 

It's another few minutes before Osamu emerges, still mostly dripping, wrapped rather half-heartedly in a robe that's a few sizes too large, and notably clean-shaven (better to start now or it's _never_ gonna happen and it just gets weird later, ugh). "It's like I've got a housewife now," he teases, plopping his chin down onto Shiraishi's shoulder from behind. "You don't have to do all this, Kurarin, I _do_ eat, you know." 

 

A sudden heat, a slight thrill goes through Shiraishi at just that much contact. Every time, no matter how many times a day they touch (usually not too many). Shiraishi is starting to think that’ll never go away, and is more than content with that. He leans into the touch, turning to give Osamu a soft kiss. “You could stand to eat more calories daily for your height,” he murmurs, and tugs on a wet lock of hair. “You’re all wet, Samu-chan. You’ll spoil the floor.”

 

"If the floor can't stand up to this, then this place isn't worth the money," Osamu snorts, sliding an arm around Shiraishi's waist to give him a loose squeeze. It's a lot easier to think about how _easy_ Shiraishi is to be around, a lot easier to think about how much fun he is and how _enjoyable_ he is, especially when faced with the fact that he has to get in a car and go to Tokyo for most of the weekend. "It's tomorrow night when I'm leaving, by the way. No super early practices as per usual, but I'll be gone 'till Monday." 

 

It’s not really what Shiraishi wants to hear, but he covers that up as quickly as he can, leaning into Osamu’s hold, turning to inhale against his neck. “You smell...really amazingly good,” he murmurs, letting the rest of the ingredients sit haphazardly on the counter. “Your friend is lucky to get to see you all weekend.”

 

"Not really," Osamu wryly says, a laugh in his voice as he butts his head gently against Shiraishi's, loosening his arm slightly to let him turn as he wants. "It's not gonna be fun. I, uh. He's a friend of my doctor, in Tokyo." It's not _entirely_ a lie, but it's one that he's settled upon as quite convincing. "So I get to hear about that the whole time, rather than the usual how-long-it's-beens and things like that."

 

About to move in for the kill (the neck kiss), Shiraishi pauses, even as he gets Osamu’s back pressed up against the counter. “A friend of your doctor? Is everything all right?” Just because Osamu repeatedly tells him he’s fine and there’s nothing to worry about...well, that’s not the first time someone has said that to him, and is highly unlikely to be the last.

 

"Just a check-up," Osamu is swift to reassure, and he's _sure_ that he's good at that when he grabs the front of Shiraishi's shirt to yank him closer. "Leg thing. No problems flaring up, I promise. Just killing two birds with one stone."

 

Shiraishi swallows. It’s hard to feel concerned when Osamu is grabbing at him like that. What he can do, though... 

 

He grabs Osamu by the waist, hoisting him up to sit on the countertop, taking advantage of the moment to step forward between the other man’s spread knees. “Out of deference to your doctor,” he says seriously, twining his hands behind Osamu’s neck, “I’ll make sure you’re not standing for the rest of the night, yeah?”

 

" _Smooth_ , Kurarin," Osamu mutters underneath a laugh, grinning as he gets a leg around Shiraishi's waist _immediately_ to haul him in. He should definitely be feeling more guilty about this. That's not gonna happen right now, though. "If that's how you want it, it's not like I'm gonna say no." 

 

There’s a tiny part of Shiraishi’s mind that’s urgently trying to remind him that he _hasn’t put the groceries away_ , but he shoves it off to the side. Osamu kissing him back, Osamu pressing against him is far more important. He leans in, taking a slow, thorough kiss for his own, letting his fingers run through Osamu’s hair. “Where did you get a bathrobe this big?” he laughs, plucking at the enormous collar.

 

"Shut up, I like being comfortable," he only slightly lies, lurching up to kiss Shiraishi again and hopefully make him never talk about it again. Getting his thighs pressed to Shiraishi's hips and his hands up into the thick of his hair is another thing that's probably going to work, especially when Osamu arches up and bites gently at his lower lip. 

 

Is it possible for a human to melt? Shiraishi thinks he’s doing a good job of it, especially when Osamu’s teeth nibble at his lip and his knees start wobbling and trying to give out. That’s all kinds of unfair, and the next time Shiraishi presses close, he can feel his own pulse through his cock, he’s so hard. 

 

His hands drop down, coming to rest on Osamu’s upper thighs, and the thought of just how easily he could part that robe is something that sends another pulse of heat through him, making him almost dizzy. Carefully, he opens his mouth to the kiss with a soft moan, his hands parting that thick terry cloth and sliding up the inside of smooth thighs, not _quite_ touching anything more intimate yet. “Mm,” he murmurs, slightly surprised and more aroused than he wants to be, “you shaved your legs?”

 

 _Good, let's just get that out of the way already._ "Ah. Yeah." Harder to remember the excuse he came up with when Shiraishi's between his legs already, when he's got his hands there and it would be a lot easier, technically, to just keep kissing him and make him shut up again. "Doctor stuff," Osamu supplies more or less coherently, "MRI, maybe. Weird, right?" 

 

Except, well, Shiraishi's obviously into it, and that…could be worse. Osamu's own cock aches, and with nothing to even really rub against, that's just not fair. "Kurarin," he breathes against Shiraishi's mouth, biting lightly at his lips again before sucking on that soft, full lower one, and pulling back with a last flick of his tongue, "you sure you're gonna be okay doing it in here?" 

 

Shiraishi’s next breath is a deep, shivering one, his hands kneading into Osamu’s thighs as he aches, feeling the smoothness of the skin. “I didn’t know we had to do the whole thing where we started making out,” he teases, leaning in to nip at Osamu’s lip in turn. 

 

His hands slide up a bit, just enough for him to realize he hasn’t exactly...done this part, yet. That’s no good; Osamu has, more than once, and there’s nothing to be afraid of. Shiraishi slides his fingers forward, curling the non-bandaged ones gently around the base of Osamu’s cock, feeling the heat and weight and pulse of it against his palm. “It’s heavy,” he murmurs, not quite sure why he’s surprised, until he realizes-- “They make you do _that_ for an MRI, too?”

 

At that, Osamu exhales a breathy laugh against Shiraishi's neck. " _That's_ just because," he flippantly replies, scooting forward until he's precariously balanced on the edge of the countertop, all to better arch up into Shiraishi's hand. "I'll admit, I thought you'd be more surprised about my _face_ being clean-shaven."

 

Shiraishi grins, emboldened now that Osamu isn’t flinching away or anything, and strokes his fingers lightly along the length of his cock, teasing fluid out of the tip. “You didn’t have that much hair there in the first place,” he points out, twisting his hand so he can rub his palm over the head, just the way he likes himself. “Down here, the difference is....more noticeable.”

 

"Uh huh." Osamu's mind kind of glazes over (thank god, he needs that to happen right about now), his next breath a sharp inhale through his nose as he lurches forward, his hands kneading hard into Shiraishi's shoulders. "You," he groans, butting his face into Shiraishi's neck, his mouth finding its way back up for his teeth to nip at the lobe of Shiraishi's ear, "have _nice_ hands, Kurarin." 

 

“Ahh? You like that?” The question is a breathless exhalation, a plea for approval even as he can _see_ how much Osamu likes it. He can feel it, slippery and tacky on his hand, and he leans in to Osamu’s kisses and nibbles, eyes sliding closed as his hand strokes up and down. There’s a heady sense of power in it, of holding Osamu like this, controlling the pleasure he feels. Abruptly, Shiraishi realizes he has no idea what to do with his left hand, and brings it to slide up Osamu’s belly, resting on his chest instead. Does that work? That probably works.

 

Now's about when that guilt should show up, but it's just not happening. 

 

Osamu breathes a sigh of relief at that more than anything (he's horrible, time to resign himself to that!), especially when he shivers and his hips twitch up into Shiraishi's hand. His legs spread a bit wider--like it's something automatic, oh well--and his breath hitches against Shiraishi's throat when that hand just skims over a nipple through fabric that _really_ is pretty useless at this point. "Yeah. You're good at this," Osamu reassures him, one of his own hands gently guiding Shiraishi's back, underneath his robe this time. 

 

Shiraishi might be inexperienced, but he knows how to follow cues, and he can take a hint. It helps when that hint presents itself in terms of grabbing his hand and putting it somewhere, of course, but Osamu’s a good teacher and knows what he needs, and he’s more than willing to grasp at that. His breath hitches--the whole thing is just _good_ \--and he rubs up and down Osamu’s chest, dragging his thumb over a nipple as his hand moves faster. “You like it when I do _that_.” It’s less of a question this time, more of a breathless, amused accusation.

 

Considering how his cock jumps and his breath catches up in his throat when Shiraishi's fingers do _exactly_ what they're supposed to do--yep, _yep_ , that's definitely gotta be pretty clear. "Uh huh," he groans, and his hands are a lot grabbier after that, sliding down to get at the front of Shiraishi's jeans, hooking into his belt loops. "Kurarin," Osamu mutters, biting at the front of Shiraishi's neck with a slow, drawn-out suck before he pulls away, "you're gonna need to get your cock out or I'm just gonna start eating you alive." His hands _might_ already be on the task of unbuttoning and unzipping. 

 

Shiraishi laughs, thrilled that he can get Osamu to this point, that he’s actually pretty _good_ at it. With Osamu’s help, it’s not too difficult to get himself out (as hard as he is), leaning forward to rub against Osamu’s, a soft grunt falling from his lips. “Ah--Samu-chan,” he breathes, his head tilting back to give Osamu more access, his left hand still rubbing and stroking at Osamu’s chest. “B-but you can still eat me alive if you want to,” he adds, making no effort to pull his neck away.

 

 _Don't go overboard, he still has to explain this away_ , Osamu reminds himself, though the thought process doesn't go very far when Shiraishi's cock slides against his own and--well, fuck it. 

 

It's just _easy_ to get his mouth all over Shiraishi's neck, biting and sucking and kissing. It's also really, _really_ easy to lean back, arching up with a groan to let his cock slide harder against Shiraishi's. Bracing his other hand on the counter at least gives him some leverage, and the other goes between them, long fingers curling around them both for a slow, but no less insistent squeeze. "Do you wanna come like this?" he breathlessly asks, his pulse thudding way too fast through his veins. "Or--if you wanna put it in again--"

 

“Do you--” Shiraishi’s mind goes temporarily blank when Osamu’s cock catches under the head of his own, and he gasps for breath, rutting up mindlessly for a few seconds until he gets his thought processes back. “Do you even have a condom here?” he manages to ask, and then just...gives up.

 

“We can do it again later,” he promises breathlessly, his hand twining together with Osamu’s, sliding and squeezing and stroking the two of them in tandem. It won’t be long, not with the pounding in his ears and Osamu’s surprisingly smooth face rubbing against his chest, with those teeth and lips and tongue against his neck driving him crazy.

 

 _Stupid kids and their stupid safe sex_ , Osamu dimly thinks--for about two seconds, because fuck, _fuck_ that feels good. 

 

Shiraishi has the best hands. He's going to have to praise the kid about that later, but right now, all he can do is groan and arch up and fuck up into that hold. His mouth fastens to a particularly _good_ curve of Shiraishi's shoulder, sucking and sinking his teeth into it to keep his voice down when all he can think about is how hard he is and how he's dripping over Shiraishi's fingers and fuck, that's _really_ as good as it's ever going to get, isn't it?

 

Osamu comes with a ragged gasp, shivering down to his toes, which curl so hard that he feels cramps from it up into his thighs. _Really_ unfair, that some sixteen year old kid has given him some of the better orgasms of his life.

 

It’s Osamu’s teeth that do him in. Odd, that that _works_ , when Shiraishi doesn’t particularly get any enjoyment from pain most of the time. It’s nothing he can spare a thought for now, not when he’s groaning and spilling all over both of them, lurching forward and slumping into Osamu’s arms when he shakes. HIs legs almost give out, and he just barely manages to stay standing, rubbing frantically into their joined hands to milk out every last drop before he can stop humping like an animal. 

 

It also takes longer than he expects to catch his breath, and when he does, he uses it to turn his head and murmur, “Samu-chan, love you, you’re _perfect_ ,” and other things that just run off the top of his head, into Osamu’s ear, clinging to his robe with one trembling hand.

 

"Don't fall, Kurarin," is the first, breathless concern that Osamu manages to voice, complete with a shaky laugh as he tries to get his own arms (that feel decidedly like noodles) around Shiraishi and at least marginally support him. "Do you _know_ how good you are?" he murmurs, mouthing another kiss to the side of Shiraishi's neck. "Can't remember the last time I got off like that." 

 

“I think last Monday?” Shiraishi tries, and attempts to unclench his fingers, cupping Osamu’s face instead, bringing him up for a long, slow kiss. “I’d be better already, but I can’t exactly practice on my own.” Osamu is probably the only person he’d admit that to.

 

There's no helping the way he has to laugh at that. "You're better already," Osamu reassures him when he draws back from the kiss and rakes a hand back through his hair. "Fast learner, as per usual. Not that you weren't up to par the first time, but…damn, Kurarin. You could pick me up and push me into things more often." _I sure am telling a sixteen year old this,_ Osamu cheerfully notes. 

 

“It’s not like you’re especially difficult to pick up,” Shiraishi notes with a smile, and to prove it, wraps an arm around Osamu’s waist and lifts him one-handed off the counter, briefly considering the couch before carrying him into the bedroom instead. There’s a TV in there--it could be innocent. “I’m a mess,” he realizes in some dismay, shucking his pants and wiping off as much off of his shirt as he can, standing in his black bikini briefs. “Can I use your washing machine again?”

 

About three or four arousing things just happened in the span of ten seconds, and that's both unfortunate and great. "Yeah, whatever," Osamu settles on as he surges up from the bed to grab Shiraishi by the wrist and drag him back down. " _Later_. You can use it later. You forgot that key word." 

 

Shiraishi’s eyes light up, and he maybe leaps a little bit onto the bed, pushing Osamu down onto his back and nuzzling into his neck, on hands and knees above him. “I thought I’d have to wait for you, old man,” he teases, kissing a trail down from Osamu’s jaw to his chest. “You keeping up after all?”

 

" _I'm_ the only one that's allowed to bitch about how old I am." Maybe he didn't appreciate Shiraishi the last time that they hooked up. Yeah, that's definitely the case, because it's time to really just… _appreciate_ the fact that Shiraishi wears bikini briefs _as a choice_ and…yeah, okay.

 

Osamu gives up very happily, and flops onto his back without a single semblance of protest. "Don't worry," he breathes instead, "I'm keeping up." 

 

“Good.” Shiraishi raises his head briefly to give Osamu a smile, then dips it down again. “You liked it when I rubbed here,” he notes, and gives an experimental kiss, then a lick to one nipple, eyes flicking up to watch Osamu’s reaction. Just tasting his skin is better than he could ever have explained to his past self, even knowing how good Osamu has always smelled, pressed up against him from behind, helping him swing his racquet perfectly.

 

The fingers had been good, and Shiraishi's mouth right now is apparently just intent on drawing out that lingering soreness that makes him shudder. "Yeah," Osamu confirms, his breath catching already, and one hand immediately settles for burying itself into Shiraishi's hair. "You can even put your teeth on it, if you want. Not too hard or anything, but it feels good like that." 

 

“Really?” Interesting information. Shiraishi files that away for later to try on himself, and for the moment does as he’s told. He opens his mouth and sucks the nub in, dragging his teeth over it slightly before letting go, and doing it once more for good measure. It’s a little weird, but _hot_ , and his eyes are already dilated when he looks up for Osamu’s reaction. “Is that doing it for you?”

 

Considering every drag of those teeth--perfect, fucking christ, he doesn't even have to give another direction--goes straight to his cock…

 

Osamu's eyes flutter and he nods, swallowing hard for a moment as his fingers twist into Shiraishi's hair. "Just like that, Kurarin," he manages, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. "N..not too much, though, or you're gonna get me way too close already." 

 

“Are you sure I’m the teenager here?” Shiraishi draws back, sitting up on Osamu’s thighs and resting his hands on Osamu’s chest. “Ah, how does it work now?” he asks, reaching into his underwear to rub his cock a little, feeling it come back to life no matter how sensitive it still is. “Do we switch off? I don’t mind, if you want to.” It’s only fair, even if the idea is a little (a lot) daunting, Shiraishi is certain Osamu is probably pretty good at it.

 

"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm not allowed to be…you know what, moving on," Osamu groans, flopping back with something akin to relief. There's only so much he can handle, after all--but then again, watching Shiraishi touch himself is just about as bad (great), and that's not really fair. "We don't need to switch off." He's already swinging an arm over to the nightstand to fish out a condom, so sue him. "It just matters what we're in the mood for, and uh, I'm gonna be honest, I'm pretty into you putting it in me and shoving me into this bed." 

 

That’s something of a relief, and Shiraishi beams down, nodding as he raises up slightly to get his underwear off. That requires just a bit of twisting, given how flexible he is, and he settles back down, legs spread wider this time. “It was hot, last time, when you put it on me,” he says, watching Osamu’s cock twitch as well. “Is there anything--is there anything I have to do to get you ready? Last time was kind of a blur. A _great_ blur.”

 

Osamu sheds the robe entirely when he sits up enough to focus on the task at hand. "Theoretically," he answers with a shrug, tearing open the condom's package. "Lubrication's always a must either way. I usually just put some of it on you, and it's fine…but a lot of guys need it in them first, before you put it in, but I guess I'm so good that we don't need to bother," he hums, rolling the condom down Shiraishi's cock with ease.

 

“Yet another of your amazing skills,” Shiraishi breathes, trying to hold still and not just rub against Osamu’s hand. There’s much, much better to come, he reminds himself, and nods firmly. If Osamu says he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t need it. “The way we did it before, with me on my back? It was good,” he assures Osamu, and leans down to kiss one bare shoulder. “But can we try something else? Like this, maybe? I feel like you’d be easier to kiss this way.”

 

"You're not gonna hear any complaints from me," Osamu breathes, flopping backwards again after making a valiant grab for the bottle of lube in question. Getting some of it in his hand is enough, especially when he gets to wrap those fingers around Shiraishi's cock again for a long, slow stroke. Just feeling the weight of it in his hand is enough to make him shiver, and Osamu shifts, breathing out a slow exhale as he spreads his legs. "I'm not as bendy as you, fair warning, so don't expect anything too acrobatic." 

 

A flush stains Shiraishi’s cheeks red as he looks down, and he swallows hard. “You look...wow.” The hands on his cock didn’t help at all, but looking at Osamu naked on the bed with his legs spread is enough to make him gulp. 

 

He leans down, bracing his weight on one elbow as he gives Osamu’s lips a soft kiss, other hand going to guide his cock up, nudging against...almost.... _there_. “I’m so lucky to be here,” he whispers, and flexes his thighs, sliding smoothing forward.

 

If he could think a little bit more coherently right now, Osamu would have it in him to tell Shiraishi otherwise, or maybe think of something vaguely cute to say, but--fuck, nope, that's not gonna happen.

 

Instead, it's way more important to wriggle down with a groan, feeling his body spreading and stretching around Shiraishi's cock. It's enough to snatch away the breath from his lungs, and that's _good_ , when all he can think about is how hot and hard Shiraishi feels inside of him. "Kurarin-- _fuck_ ," is the less than eloquent exhale when Osamu's back arches on its own accord, and his thighs clamp tightly around Shiraishi's waist. When was the last time that he was fucked on his back like this? _Awhile_ , his mind is always so quick to remind him. It's always a dozen times more intimate, and that's both good and a little mind-numbing. "J…just like that, get it all the way in--"

 

“N-not going to be a problem,” Shiraishi says weakly, and suddenly understands that temptation to _bite_. His teeth dig into Osamu’s shoulder as his breath comes out in harsh bursts, toes curling with every jerk forward. “Samu-chan...”

 

This is perfect. This is everything he wants, clinging to each other, wrapped up in each other, thrusting and strong and visceral. The idea that he’s in, that he’s _inside_ Osamu, is enough to make him gasp, which just makes him rut up harder. He could be _more_ in control right now, he thinks dimly as his hips snap up forcefully in a swift rhythm.

 

Probably the best part about Shiraishi is that he _listens_ at the best of times, and other times, just loses that edge of control that makes it _perfect_.

 

Right now, that definitely has happened. Osamu gets his nails into that strong, lean back, consciously trying not to claw in too hard, but it's difficult when Shiraishi's deep enough inside of him that their skin slaps together and it actually takes _effort_ for him to breathe again. Reflex, more than anything, makes his legs spread wide and trembling, trying to make it easier for Shiraishi to fuck him even harder. "Kurarin," Osamu rasps out, scoring his nails down Shiraishi's back, "slower--but deep, just like _that_ , like you're gonna make me feel it all weekend when I'm gone--"

 

“I want you to feel it.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but there’s a raw edge of hunger in Shiraishi’s voice that he doesn’t recognize himself. The prick of nails against his back makes him drive in harder, and trying to go slower feels like yanking feebly on the reins of a galloping horse, but he manages--barely. “ _So_ good,” he breathes, bracing his weight on one hand and using the other to grab, to squeeze Osamu’s shoulder from behind for leverage, yanking him down onto every deep thrust. 

 

There’s a cadence that develops out of the chaos. When it hits, Shiraishi groans, hips slapping against Osamu’s in time now, less frantic, more determined. The pleasure that makes him tingle to his toes is better than he remembers, more _tactile_ , and he wants to grab it with teeth and nails, wants to stay in this moment, buried in Osamu and watching his face change between slack and tense, forever.

 

It's one thing to know that Shiraishi takes direction well, another thing to be at the mercy of that, and fuck, it's really good. Sometimes, Shiraishi's cock ends up inside as far as it can be, and when that happens, sparks end up flashing behind Osamu's eyelids and there's not much else to do but squirm down and ride out that sensation for as long as he can. 

 

The fact that Shiraishi keeps pulling him down _onto_ his cock is enough to make his eyes cross. His breath escapes in ragged, uneven exhales, and Osamu's hands scratch and claw their way down, getting a good hold of Shiraishi's ass at some point to hold him in nice and deep. " _Definitely_ gonna feel it later," he promises, biting his lip with each aching slide after that, his cock dripping between them. 

 

“Good.” 

 

Shiraishi lurches up for a kiss, bruising and urgent, letting Osamu guide him into each motion with his hands, his hips, his legs spread so wide it’s obvious he _loves_ having cock deep inside. Shiraishi obliges as much as he can, little grunts coming from his throat when he presses _in_ , drinking in the noises Osamu makes, letting them drive him further, that delicious friction pushing him towards the edge--

 

Then Osamu’s cock rubs against his stomach, and for some reason, that’s what sends him over. 

 

Shiraishi cries out, a wordless shout and a dozen rough thrusts, one after the other, shoving in so hard the bed hits the wall in quick succession as he floods the condom, losing his mind and not regretting it in the slightest when his world narrows to the feel of Osama squeezing around him, then explodes, slumping down onto Osamu’s chest with a final, overwhelmed sort of whimper.

 

Osamu's sure that his hands are too rough, grabbing and scratching and bruising when he grinds and ruts down into every single one of Shiraishi's thrusts. There's not much to be done about it, though, not when he's being fucked until his eyes cross and every noise catches up in his throat, low and desperate and _hungry_. 

 

When he comes, it's somewhere in the middle of Shiraishi's own orgasm, his body gratefully giving in. His heels dig into the bed, his legs cramping and shuddering from how tension originates there and floods through his own body, and Osamu just groans, writhing down a last time onto Shiraishi's cock before it starts going soft, his head thrown back as he pants and twitches and spills between them.

 

The noise that comes out of Shiraishi’s mouth is a little broken, a lot satiated, and he doesn’t make the slightest attempt to move. He can feel them both getting cooler, wetter, stickier as the seconds tick by, and doesn’t care at all about that, either. “You,” he murmurs, not sure the words are coming out right, “are like... _really_ good at that. Best. Perfect. _God_ , Samu-chan, I feel like someone ripped out my spine. In a sexy way.”

 

Osamu's laugh is breathless and pretty ragged at the edges as he sags down, flopping both arms around Shiraishi. "The hell do you know about what's good or not?" he openly teases. "Unless Koharu dragged  you to his house of mysteries and excitement and you forgot to mention it to me…" 

 

“Ah. Gross.” Shiraishi nuzzles into Osamu’s chest, giving him a soft bite. “I think I’d know if it felt _bad_ , hmm? Take the compliment, your legs spread _really_ wide for someone who doesn’t do yoga.”

 

Osamu gives his ass a solid pinch. "It's my one skill in life." 

 

Shiraishi squeaks, twisting slightly. “What does it feel like?” he asks instead, changing the subject a bit. “Your face always looks so...” He turns his head, burying it in Osamu’s chest, not looking up. “‘s hard to look at your face during. Makes me go off too fast. You look like you’re having a _great_ time.”

 

 _Things I do not want to tell a sixteen year old. Fuck, I thought we were past this_. "It's…ah…I dunno, it's good, but I think it's an acquired taste." He's not sure if petting Shiraishi's hair right now makes this better or worse. 

 

Shiraishi butts up against Osamu’s hand, wrapping his arms around Osamu’s waist and squeezing. “I’m not in any hurry to try it myself,” he assures him, “as long as you’re happy doing it this way.” That movement makes him slide out, an odd and distinctly floppy sensation that is...really not as good as sex at all, and makes him make a face. “Where’s your trash can, again? For the burnables? Or should it go in plastic?”

 

"A question for the ages," Osamu deadpans, squirming free enough to get ahold of that condom before Shiraishi has a clean freak panic attack over it. "Burnables, I think?" he muses as he tosses it into the tiny trashcan near the bed. "I wouldn't want to try and recycle this kind of stuff."

 

“Ah. Good point.” The sudden cool air on the suddenly softest part of him makes Shiraishi almost yelp, and he curls his legs up, knees to his chest. “That’s...definitely a sensation. Ah, those things are a little slimy, aren’t they? Don’t you feel sort of...” He tries not to look down at Osamu’s ass. Nope, going to look. Ah. Nice ass. What was he talking about, again?

 

"Hmm? Nah, it's not so bad. _Nothing_ compares to doing it without one," Osamu wryly offers up, slowly flopping back over onto his back and stretching with a long exhale. "I mean, it feels good at the time, but when it's all slimy and dripping out…yeah, no thanks. Sorry, I'll stop before you get too grossed out, you've already got a look in your eye." 

 

Shiraishi swallows hard, but shakes his head. “It’s not that bad. Nothing like....I mean, I’m just--you took a shower right before, and there’s never anything--I mean, anything that I’d _worried_ about being...there...ah, you know what I mean,” he finishes on a mumble, moving to lay facedown on the bed. “As long as that doesn’t happen, I’m good not thinking about it.”

 

Damn it, he's cute. Immediately, Osamu settles back into petting Shiraishi's hair. "Don't worry about it. For what it's worth, I don't mind showering beforehand and all of that. _Someone_ I know apparently also likes it when I shave my legs, which just seems to be more incentive." Weird, how doing that for one person makes him twitch, and doing it for this kid is definitely a turn-on. Maybe it's better not to think about it.

 

Shiraishi shrugs, because there’s no use hiding it at this point. “It’s not something I thought about before,” he admits, “but, uh, yeah. Shaving _there_ was a surprise.” Not bad either, judging by his own reaction. “Do you...” The idea makes his eyebrows twitch, and not in any bad kind of way. “Do you want me to? Or anything else that you’d think was...you know. Hot.”

 

"You don't have to do that kind of stuff, or anything…" Osamu trails off, leaning down to mouth a kiss to the curve of Shiraishi's shoulder. "Honestly, Kurarin," he lowly offers up, "it's hotter if you don't. Goes with the aesthetic. Maybe _you_ don't think about yourself being, ah, really manly or anything like that, but seriously, shoving me into things and picking me up like you always do--I approve. A+."

 

“Ah, okay.” Shiraishi unburies his face, finally, and turns onto his side, one hand tracing gentle shapes on Osamu’s belly. “I probably wouldn’t know how to shave, anyway. So it’s manliness that turns you on, hmm?” His brow furrows. “Should I wear different underwear? They _are_ for men, but Yukari says they’re girly.”

 

"Fuck, no. Keep wearing those things. Wear them all the time. You look _so_ good in them." 

 

“You’re a man of peculiar tastes, Samu-chan,” Shiraishi informs him seriously.

 

"Hey, at least I know what I like," Osamu huffs, thoroughly mussing Shiraishi's hair. "It's not _my_ fault that you fit the bill in half a dozen ways." 

 

“It’s also not your fault that I’m determined and don’t like being turned down.” Shiraishi reaches up, and thumbs over Osamu’s lip, catching his gaze. “I can see you beating yourself up for being like this with me sometimes,” he says quietly, laying his other hand on Osamu’s arm and giving it a squeeze. “You really don’t need to worry about me. I hope I’m showing you that.”

 

"I--" _You're not_ wrong _,_ Osamu wearily thinks, wishing that they didn't have to go there right now, and deciding to just get it over with and deal with it. Maybe if he does, it won't come up again for a long while. "I'm not gonna say it's not weird, sometimes," he admits, heaving a sigh and taking a deliberately harmless snap at Shiraishi's thumb, his teeth just barely grazing it. "I know you're mature and all that, and I _am_ getting used to this, I swear. I'm still gonna worry about it, though, so you'll have to deal." 

 

“I can deal with it just fine,” Shiraishi assures him, and squeezes again, wriggling closer to throw a leg over Osamu’s waist. “I just don’t like thinking that you’re unhappy about the whole thing. I know, I’ll just tell you some jokes. Hey, what’s Michael Jackson’s favorite color?”

 

"Ah. Kurarin. I'm not unhappy, you don't have to tell me jokes." _That you've told me before, you big, clueless child._

 

Shiraishi shrugs. It’s not like his jokes usually work, or anything. “I’ll take your word for it, then. Do you want me to cook lunch? Or, uh, dinner, by this time. I can make noodles!”

 

"Yeah, you go do that. As if I'd pass up a chance for the world famous Kurarin noodles." If he doesn't let Shiraishi do something, he's probably going to self-destruct. "In the meantime, I'm going to lay here and bask and probably smoke, fair warning." 

 

“You really don’t have to warn me every time. It’s your apartment.” Shiraishi rolls over, gives Osamu a kiss, and gets up, stretching out. “But thank you. Warnings in the car and before we kiss are appreciated, though!” He has noodles to make, and only pauses to tug his underwear back on. “You’re not expecting other company, right? I’m more comfortable like this.”

 

"Nope, not until tomorrow night," Osamu hums, getting a last, good look at Shiraishi in those underwear (he's complete trash and really horrible, but oh well!) before rummaging around for his cigarettes. "And I'm gonna keep warning you because whenever I don't, you get twitchy."

 

“Fair enough.” Shiraishi walks to the kitchen, finishing unpacking his groceries and setting up his noodle-making station. “Ah...any pots, pans, or dishes that I shouldn’t use?” Not that there are all that many to choose from, he realizes in dismay. At this rate, he’ll be using every utensil in the apartment for one dish.

 

"You're already cooking in it more than I ever do, so consider it your stage!" It _is_ like having a housewife. Who knew. 

 

“I suppose I can use old conbini containers,” Shiraishi mutters under his breath, surveying the state of the kitchen in-depth. He makes a mental note to stop by the 100-yen store and pick up some cheap dishware the next time he comes. This isn’t even fit for a bachelor, as far as he’s concerned, though he can certainly make do for the sake of his famous noodles. 

 

He reaches up, touching a hand to one of the forming bruises on his neck as the water starts to heat up, and smiles. That’s a nice reminder, even if he’ll have to take up an interesting fashion choice of scarves in mid-summer to hide it.

 

A sudden thought strikes him, and he runs back into the bedroom, a look of shock on his face. “Many of our team members wear scarves in the summer!” he announces, startled. “Echizen and Kaidou specifically! And Yuuji wears feather boas!”

 

Osamu exhales a slow stream of smoke, and stares up at him through his lashes. "Uh. Yeah, Kurarin. Because their boyfriends chew on them all the time." One look at Shiraishi's neck makes him grimace. "Sorry about it, by the way." 

 

“It’s fine, but--they’re _younger_ than me.” Shiraishi hopes he sounds appalled. “Echizen is barely _thirteen_. Who could they possibly...”

 

"Kurarin…Kintarou climbs that poor kid like a _tree_." 

 

“Oh.” Shiraishi frowns. “I guess that’s okay, then.” He turns the idea over in his head from a few angles. Echizen might be less _destructive_ than Kin-chan, but there’s no getting around the fact that he’s miles more intelligent, and has Kintarou wrapped around his little finger. “And Yuuji of course I know, but--Kaidou? Surely, _Kaidou_...”

 

"With Zaizen." Osamu politely turns his head aside to make sure not to blow that next stream of smoke directly at Shiraishi. "Since last year's Nationals, I think."

 

“My water is boiling,” Shiraishi mutters rebelliously, and stalks back to the kitchen for his preparations. Mentally, he tallies it up--Kin-chan and Echizen, Zaizen and Kaidou, Koharu and Yuuji, and he _knows_ Kenya and Chitose have...

 

He lets out a groan that’s more dismayed than truly annoyed, and almost sets the noodles on fire. “I was...the _last_ virgin on the team?”

 

"To be fair," Osamu calls after him, "you _did_ lose your virginity to the oldest possible option on the team! That sort of makes it level out, don't you think?" 

 

“Given that I was the second-oldest option on the team?” Shiraishi asks. “I’m not sure whether that makes it better or worse.” He starts mixing seasonings, and remarks with a faint frown, “This team is _very_ homosexual. More than usual, don’t you think?”

 

"Eh." Osamu hauls himself out of bed after finishing his cigarette and pulls his robe back on, even if he only half-heartedly ties it. "Most tennis teams are. Just because they don't talk about it doesn't mean that they aren't all chasing after one another." 

 

“Ah, okay.” That sounds fine, and it’s not _hurting_ anyone. Shiraishi hums to himself, improvising utensils where none are provided, and generally being quite satisfied with the way the noodles are turning out. “I brought movies if you want to watch them, but I was hoping we could go play tennis after we eat, if you don’t mind.”

 

"Overachiever," Osamu teases, even though he's content to flop down at the kitchen table and watch his new housewife-apparent. "Sure, though. Whatever you want." 

 

“Well, that way I can make up for spending the rest of the weekend studying.” Shiraishi sighs, and tastes an undercooked noodle, nibbling the tip off. “I haven’t had time to write my story at _all_ lately, I hope the subscribers aren’t too cross with me.”

 

"I'm sure they'll forgive you. I bet they understand the trials and tribulations of a future Olympic athlete." 

 

Shiraishi throws a noodle at him. “It’s not like I’ve told anyone but you and my parents,” he says, giving the pot a swirl. “What if I don’t make it? Everyone from Shitenhouji would be disappointed.”

 

Osamu tilts his head, the noodle sailing past him. "Are you kidding me? Kurarin, you know that they'd be _thrilled_ to know that you were even trying for it. Not a lot goes on at Shitenhouji, in case you haven't noticed; just the idea of someone giving it a shot is gonna get people riled up. I mean…" he trails off, shrugging, reeling himself in and trying not to think about how ready _he_ had been to announce something so similar years ago. "Don't do it unless you're comfortable with it, but I'm just saying. No one's gonna be disappointed in you either way." 

 

“I’m fine with them knowing I got on the team, even if I don’t do well,” Shiraishi says, frowning down at his noodles as they boil, mixing broth into his spices. “I just don’t want them to get the idea that someone like them is going to succeed only for...you know, nothing to happen. It’s not exactly guaranteed.” He hesitates, then adds, “Although I did enter into a youth tournament next month, Western Regional. I guess I kept my old seeded record, so that was nice.”

 

"Listen, brat, you have _got_ to start telling me when you're doing things," Osamu mutters, only marginally cross. "You're gonna win that thing, you know you are, but that's not the point. At least tell _me_ when you're doing things so I can train you correctly; I would've killed for a coach like me at your age, even if he was old and useless with running." 

 

“It was yesterday!” Shiraishi protests, and finally drains his water, using a plate held over the pot, as colanders are not something that apparently exist in Osamu’s apartment. “I haven’t been keeping it from you, I was going to tell you when we met up to practice today.” It still warms his heart to hear Osamu speak well of himself--that’s been few and far between lately. “You can run me around the court _correctly_ all day.”

 

"All right, all right, _fine_ , but at least warn me before you even enter next time, that's kind of part of the process." _And for scheduling purposes_. Osamu heaves a long sigh, and tries not to crave another cigarette in the midst of an affectionate addendum: "Whatever. Like I said, you know you're gonna win."

 

“Yeah. I’ll play perfect tennis.” Shiraishi sighs, and starts sculpting the noodles on each plate into a perfect circular shape, with a perfect depression in the center. “I know I won’t lose that way, even if it’s kind of silly and boring.”

 

"If you'd relax a bit more," Osamu idly points out, resting his chin in one hand, "and listen when I tell you that you can play around on the court a bit, you'd find yourself a lot happier when playing, I think." 

 

“I’m not even sure I remember how,” Shiraishi confesses, chagrined. It’s been years since he’s done anything on the court _but_ perfect tennis. It’s what he’s known for, what’s gotten them to the Nationals more than once. It’s safe, basic, and flawless. 

 

He fills each depression with his secret special super sauce, sprinkles a tiny bit of the super special secret spice on each, and sticks a fork (or close enough) on each plate. “Come eat, noodles are ready.”

 

"You know how," Osamu dismisses, climbing to his feet to drift over and snag a plate. "And if you still insist on saying that you don't remember, I'll remind you. Damn, Kurarin, do you know the last time that someone cooked for me?" He flops back down at the kitchen table. "Never. You win the housewife award already, congrats!"

 

Shiraishi makes a gesture that anyone else would find shockingly rude, coming from him, and joins Osamu at the table. It _does_ feel a little like they’re playing house, and Shiraishi finds himself mildly amused at his casting as the wife. “As long as you do the dishes, darling husband,” he says without missing a beat.

 

"I feel like that's obvious!" Good company, good sex, and good food? Osamu can handle this arrangement. "Thanks for the food--damn, Kurarin, these are actually really good, though." 

 

“There’s a reason they’re famous,” Shiraishi agrees, and slurps happily at his own plate. “What do you usually eat, Samu-chan? There’s no way you actually _live_ on conbini food.”

 

Osamu glares over his fork. "Hey, don't trash talk my favorite things. I live just fine on conbini food, thank you very much." _And the occasional stupidly fancy restaurant._  

 

“I’m just going to have to cook for you more often. Ah,” Shiraishi says, scratching the back of his neck, “I should warn you, my family doesn’t let me make salads. I mean, they’re _wrong_ , just because I like certain plants doesn’t mean I would put them in, but they all say it’s better safe than sorry.”

 

"…I'm not a big salad eater, anyway, so that's okay," Osamu wryly offers up. "But you can cook for me as often as you want, anyway. No guarantees I'll always eat it, but you can always give it a shot." 

 

“Great!” Shiraishi slurps up a huge bite, and swallows with a great deal of satisfaction. “I need to practice my cooking skills, too. I have no idea what it’ll be like if I make it to the Olympics...do you think there are people who do the cooking, or is it sort of a free for all? Ah, I’m getting ahead of myself again, but it’s _fun_ to think about.”

 

"You're asking someone who's never gone, you know," Osamu laughs, downing another mouthful of noodles without hesitation. "The good news is, if you need to do your own cooking, you'll have it handled. The bad news--if they're feeding you, you're gonna have to tolerate whatever it is that's in front of you, Mr. Sensitive Stomach." 

 

Shiraishi winces slightly, and eats his noodles more determinedly. “I’ll get through it somehow. I’m sure that the Japanese team would at least have rice at every meal.” Now that he thinks of it, every time there’s been a tournament or something, he’s been the first to pass on the free meal. Ah, well. “So, should I say goodbye to anything in your apartment?” he teases, looking around. “Tell me about this friend you’re meeting, is he one of your racetrack buddies?”

 

Oh, good, they're going to go _there_ now. The best lies have some truth in them, and so Osamu supposes that he should just go with a hefty dose of truth to start with. "Uh, actually, no, for once. He's an old tennis friend of mine." 

 

“Oh? Ah, so he’s an _old_ old friend.” Shiraishi relaxes a little, and slurps up the last of his noodles, tipping up his plate to drink the last of the sauce. “Just wondering. Oh, I brought my bike, should I walk it to the courts, or am I going to be coming back here after practice? For, uh, a shower?” _Possibly among other things._

 

"You need to wash all of your clothes, so you're definitely coming back here, idiot." Is that as far as the friend conversation is gonna go? Oh, thank god. " _And_ you're gonna need to shower. And…whatever else." 

 

“Well...you’re going to be helping me.” Shiraishi nods, trying to be very serious and being fairly certain that he’s succeeding. “So you’ll probably need to shower as well. In fact, you might say that we’ll both need to. Shower.”

 

"Kurarin, you're so smooth that it's kind of painful." 

 

Shiraishi winks, and gives him a thumbs up. “Smoothness and noodles and perfect tennis, that’s me.” A thought occurs to him, and he leans forward, saying very intently, “When I win an Olympic medal, I’m going to put it around your neck and pick you up and push you into something, Samu-chan.”

 

Ah. Well. That's a rush. "I…yeah," Osamu manages lamely around that nice, _nice_ mental image. "That's _definitely_ gonna happen. Make it a gold one, Kurarin." 

 

Shirashi smiles, serene now that he knows he’s Figured It Out. “Of course. If not this time, then next time.” Fortunately, they have the olympics every four years, and he’s young. “Hopefully I’ll start winning a _lot_ of medals.” He laughs at himself, and admits, “You make me want to get ahead of myself, Samu-chan. The rewards are too great.”

 

"Lay me down in a bed of your trophies," Osamu lightly shoots back, downing the last of his noodles and flopping back into his seat. "Even if that sounds uncomfortable, I'm pretty damn ready for it. You're more than good enough. It's gonna happen."

 

“It’ll be because of you.” Shiraishi nudges Osamu’s foot under the table. “Not that the idea of winning doesn’t sound amazing, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care if you were proud of me.”

 

"There is literally no one else that I'm more proud of already." Osamu pokes at Shiraishi's shin with his toes. "You've already given me bragging rights. Win a few more tournaments and I could have more." 

 

“Enough that your friends will get sick of hearing about me,” Shiraishi assures him. He carefully stacks his plate on top of Osamu’s, raising his eyebrows at the flat clack it makes. “High quality plastic,” he says. “Once the dishes are done, we can go.”

 

"Be nice, dear," Osamu deadpans, climbing to his feet and snatching the dishes away. "Cooking dinner only entitles you to so much." 

 

“As long as it entitles me to see all the parts you shaved again, I’m okay with that,” Shiraishi immediately replies, eyeing every fold and swish of Osamu’s robe and everything underneath.

 

"Yeah, yeah. Remind me to keep putting forth effort, and you might get something every now and then." 

 

“Keep it up, and I’ll keep pushing you into things.” This part is easy. Shiraishi can do this kind of thing. He doesn’t even have to be _funny_ , he can just be relaxed.

 

 _That's_ a much better incentive than just about anything. _Just don't think about how it's been offered to you by a sixteen year old._ "Deal." 


	7. Fuji, Mizuki & Yuuta

Mizuki tries not to interrupt when he overhears phone conversations....because interrupting means that the people on the phone stop speaking, and he quite simply can’t have that. 

 

Instead, he stays quite still outside the door of his own dorm room, listening, intrigued. There’s an awful lot of shouting, with a defiant-on-purpose tone from his _beloved_ roommate that makes Mizuki seriously doubt it’s Yuuta or Kikumaru, and who else does Fuji even talk to? 

 

_“Fine. Fine! I said it’s fine. Yes. Yes, fine. Fine!”_

 

Apparently, whatever they’re talking about, it’s fine. 

 

After several tense minutes and a bit of shouting ( _“Just because it’s not important to you doesn’t mean it’s not important!” “I just don’t like tennis anymore, that’s all!”_ ), Mizuki hears a huff and a rebellious, “ _Yes, Father,”_ as if on cue, before silence. Thirty more seconds, and he enters the room, unlocking the door with his key and setting his bookbag on the ground next to his shelf, pointedly not looking at his roommate. “Ah, Shuusuke-kun,” he says, bright and sunny as usual as he rearranges his antique china (it’s Thursday, after all), dusting each piece with a special cloth. “Home early from prep session, or chose not to attend?”

 

The look Fuji fixes upon him is nothing shy of bone-melting. "You can fuck right off and actively make an attempt to not talk to me for at least half an hour," he snaps out, clearly wavering between throwing his phone into the wall or setting it gently down and cherishing what time he has left with it still working. 

 

No. No, that's not going to happen. He's not going to be like some five year old and have such a basic privilege taken away. He's _better_ than that. It sets his teeth on edge to have something held over his head like that--like he's a child, fuck off. 

 

"I'm going to take a shower." 

 

The door slams behind him, and Fuji drowns himself for that solid half hour that he _needs_ in order to cool down.

 

Coming to this school was an active choice on his part. It was a choice to get away from Seigaku, from Tezuka, from _Taka-san_ , from Eiji and from Oishi. It was an active decision to move down to Kyoto in order to just be something other than _Seigaku's genius_. It was a promise to his father that he was going to do something else that wasn't tennis, and here he is, doing nothing. 

 

_Except my grades are good, and I'm still modeling, and I could play tennis whenever I wanted to--_

 

None of that matters, and it's obvious, just because his grades aren't perfect ("They could be, Shuusuke.") and _modeling_ , apparently, isn't good enough unless it's something that he pours his all into ("Do you want to be like your sister?"). 

 

He sucks in a long, shaky breath before stepping out of the shower, barely wrapping himself into a towel, and falling face first back into his bed, still mostly soaking wet. 

 

This is a prime opportunity for Mizuki to gloat, if he wants to be an asshole, and a prime one for him to offer comfort, if he wants to be a decent human being.

 

“Well, the _mighty_ Fuji Shuusuke is in such a conundrum,” he says, an obvious delight in every word. “Throwing a fit about...what, precisely? Excellent grades, supreme talent, a wealthy upbringing? Clearly, this calls for _discontent_ and _rebellion_.” His finger twirls through his hair as he giggles to himself.

 

With supreme accuracy, Fuji's wet towel is slung out and into Mizuki's face. "Fuck off," he flatly shoots back, rolling onto his side to stare through his damp hair across the room. "I'd tell you to try dealing with a father that's a constant overachiever, but I seriously doubt you'd _ever_ be able to relate." 

 

“The crippling pressure of being the obvious preferred favorite?” Mizuki asks bitingly, tossing the towel down to Fuji’s side of the floor. “Just phone it in like you always do. Or if you must, throw a temper tantrum and _then_ phone it in like you always do.” 

 

He stands up, dramatically miming a racquet between his clutched hands. “But this time.... _this time_....I definitely won’t lose! For the first time....I’ll _try_! Ah, I won with no effort, thank you, all of my fans!”

 

There have been a lot of times that Fuji has questioned sharing a room with Mizuki, and now is definitely one of the ones that makes him the most intensely _irritated_. "Is it _really_ such a crime to imagine having an easy semester where I don't have to _do_ anything for once?" Fuji bites out. "He's angry because I'm not getting _perfect_ grades, and because I'm not doing everything under the sun on top of that. I think I'm allowed to be pissed off about that." 

 

“It would be far more sympathetic,” Mizuki remarks dryly, sitting back on his bed, “if you didn’t put in approximately one one-hundredth of the effort into your schooling that the rest of the world does. When life is that easy on you, you don’t get the luxury of everyone feeling sorry for you. I’ve literally never even seen you study. You dust your books instead of reading them, and you’re complaining that your grades are only ten percent away from perfect?”

 

"I don't see the _point_." This entire conversation feels like a repeat of the one he just had over the phone, and Fuji blinks hard to keep back the stupid, intense well of frustration from showing up as tears. It's one thing to hear it all from his father, but from someone that he hates, too? That's _grand_. "I'm not interested in being perfect here. It doesn't matter; I'll still get where I want to even without that." 

 

“Then fuck it.” Mizuki flops back on his bed, raiding his book bag for his Physics textbook and his notes, carefully slipping on a glove before he starts taking notes to avoid getting ink on his fingertips. “Use your modeling cash and pay someone to do the extra ten percent for you. It isn’t as if you have a shortage of money. If you don’t care, at least be properly lazy in a way that contributes to a poor person’s scholarship fund.”

 

"I figured you'd get it, even if no one else did."

 

It comes out sullen and disappointed, in spite of how Fuji wishes that he could sound angrier. He flops over, face first down into a pillow again. "This was my one chance to get out of Yuuta's hair," he says into the pillow, voice muffled. "And my one chance to let _him_ get ahead for a change. Instead, our dad's still focusing on me, even when I'm not doing anything special." 

 

There’s something about that statement--defeated, genuinely upset--that makes Mizuki pause. Slowly, he tugs off his glove, putting his pen to the side for the moment. “Your father doesn’t know what defines you. He made up his mind years ago that you’re perfect and Yuuta is useless, because you’re just like him and Yuuta is just like your mother.” He pushes his hair back out of his face, and sighs. “Yuuta will never be good enough for him, and you trying to look mediocre to let him shine just highlights that. You not trying is still better than him at his best, Shuusuke-kun.”

 

"…You're pretty mean in the way that you talk about him, for supposedly still being his boyfriend," Fuji murmurs, lifting his head enough to prop his chin onto his folded arms. "I could _really_ not try. Maybe even deliberately fail some things." He's never failed a test in his life. The thought is actually kind of scary, like losing to Shiraishi Kuranosuke had been last year. 

 

“I meant in your _father’s_ eyes,” Mizuki says crossly, pushing his book and notebook away for the time being. “I doubt your father cares too much about evaluating the things about Yuuta _I_ care about.”

 

"Mm." Fuji's eyes lid. "No, probably not. I hope he's okay, though. He rarely returns my texts. My guess is Dad's been a real jerk to him by continuing to ignore him even when I'm not around." 

 

“You’re correct.” Mizuki flips his own phone open, sending off a quick text before shutting it again.

 

**To: Fuji Yuuta-kun**

**From: Mizuki-san**

**Subject: 7pm**

**Just checking in. ( ^-^)_** **旦** **”” Did you eat? I would bring you a bento like that <\-- or noodles like that --> ( ˘** **▽** **˘)** **っ♨** **I didn’t make that regimen for you for nothing. Is your dad still bothering you? It might make you happy to know he’s bothering the great Shuusuke as well.**

 

“You should still try talking to him. He won’t mention it, but he likes it when you text.”

 

**To: Mizuki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: re: 7pm**

**i ate twice the school lunch. kaneda gave me his. you used up ur 3x a day u can mention shuusuke. call me l8r.**

 

"Does he? I don't think I'm very good at carrying on conversations with him anymore, so I figured he's kind of sick of seeing messages from me." Fuji exhales a long sigh, his brow furrowing before he eventually admits, "I don't really know what else to do. Apparently, I'm not even allowed to keep modeling if I don't give it my all…ugh. I don't know why I'm even telling you this, you don't care." 

 

Mizuki blinks mildly at him. “You tell me because I’m the only person that doesn’t think the sun shines out of your ass, Shuusuke-kun. You shatter no illusions by confessing to me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop you, as we’re roommates.” He shrugs. “We’re prison friends. Obviously. Welcome to dormitory life.”

 

"You're a liar. You want to fuck me, so it's all the same," Fuji sighs, rubbing his face back down into his pillow. "More importantly, I have an audition this weekend and I don't want to go. This sucks, I want to fade into obscurity and be an art museum guide or something."  

 

“The obnoxious thing about your complaining,” Mizuki explains patiently, even as his hands curl into inelegant fists at his sides, “is that there is literally nothing stopping you. Why _don’t_ you just leave? Throw their expectations to the wind, be some artist’s rentboy and live unknown? Are you that afraid to lose everyone’s pathetic fawning and admiration?” He’d been _trying_ to be nice, but Shuusuke has ruined that, as usual.

 

"My dad would track me down," Fuji tiredly offers up. "Also, I _do_ like living expensively, I'm not going to lie about that. Also, what would _you_ do if my father cut me off? Who's been buying your hair dye, hmm?" 

 

“You’re only trying to turn it around on me because you don’t like what I’m saying,” Mizuki sniffs. Of course, he can’t _deny_ that the contributions to his hair care fund have been....appreciated, but they were still Fuji’s _idea_. Apparently, living with someone whose roots were growing out was simply intolerable for Fuji Shuusuke the fashion icon. 

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: ?**

**Yo u ok? Dad called me rly pissy and said you were probably going to leave school and go to switzerland like yumiko. please dont leave me in japan with mizuki and mom.**

 

Fuji immediately proceeds to ignore Mizuki as he snatches up his phone. "Oh," he sighs out. "Yuuta's so cute." 

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject:** ❤

**I'm fine, don't worry about it. Dad's just mad because I didn't want to go and do a thing this weekend. I won't leave you here alone with that piece of trash** ❤❤❤

 

Mizuki breaths a quiet sigh of relief, and tries not to show it. Things are just uncomfortable whenever Shuusuke is in a mood, and it’s been happening more and more often lately. “If you stop trying,” he says, not looking at Fuji, because it _can’t_ be real advice, he _can’t_ be going that soft if he’s not even _looking_ at the asshole, “he’ll either get the message that it’s fine to stop trying, or that he can’t beat you even if you stop trying. You know that.”

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: Oi**

**I see what ur calling me in ur phone! change it to a manly name!!!**

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: But you're so cute.**

**I'm not going to do that. My text alert for you is also the sounds of kittens meowing because it reminds me of how cute you are** ❤

 

Fuji lowers his phone, sighs heavily, and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. "You're not _wrong_ ," he eventually says, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth as he sets his phone down onto one bare thigh. "But…I still wish there was something I could do to make our dad pay attention to him more when I'm gone. I thought this would work." 

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: >(**

**Mine 4u is ur voice saying my name! bc u changed it to that a year ago and i still cant figure out how!!!! Aniki it so weird.**

 

Mizuki looks over, then quickly away, cursing under his breath. “At least put some clothes on if you’re going to lay around the dorm room.” Fuji Shuusuke, whether he admits it or not, has always been fond of giving Mizuki unwanted erections.

 

"Mmn? But why, it's my dorm room, too." 

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: wwww**

**Good. Then you can always hear me even when I'm down here in Kyoto!!**

 

"Anyway, the real problem _now_ is that apparently, Dad's bitching to _him_ , too…so I guess I do have to do this applying myself thing," Fuji sighs, tossing his phone onto the bed. "Should I cut my hair, you think, for my audition? Or is looking like a girl still really a good thing." It's long enough that he can _braid it_ now. Taka-san would like that, he thinks wistfully. 

 

“Go like that, they can always make you cut it if they want you to look manlier.” Mizuki sighs, and shakes his head, finger-combing his hair back self-consciously. “Not that you’d look manly even with it cut. You’d just look like a lesbian.”

 

"Rude. My dad has short hair, he doesn't…mm. Well, he _does_ look like a female executive on some days, with the suit and everything," Fuji slowly notes, blinking up towards the ceiling. "Ah well. Apparently, I'm also supposed to do something _else_ besides school and my modeling career. Tennis seems like the easy option, but to be honest, I _really_ don't want to at this school. _You're_ the manager." 

 

“Afraid of how much you’d improve under a proper tutelage?” Mizuki asks, settling back onto his bed. “For fuck’s sake, put a _towel_ on or something. You’re so shameless, are you really Japanese?”

 

" _You're_ the one looking. I wonder if Yuuta would appreciate a selfie, it's been awhile." Fuji's already got his phone back in hand, artfully positioning it with a V-sign in place. "I hate to admit it, but it's more the fact that the tennis team here is horrible, and I know that because you've done nothing but complain about it since school started. Also, I'm already amazing." 

 

“Shuusuke-kun,” Mizuki says tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “you remember when you couldn’t think of a single reason why Yuuta would develop a twisted sexual attraction for you? Naked selfies don’t help.”

 

"Don't be gross, it was chest-up only in the shot." 

 

“Perfect, texting your nipples to your brother. Very French of you.”

 

"You've never even _been_ to France, shut up." 

 

“Not everyone has been on the Grand Sneer,” Mizuki mutters, and petulantly gets out his books and glove again. “If our little existential tantrum is over, and we’ve gotten to the ‘I believe I will try today!! Tezuka...’ part of the evening?”

 

"You know," Fuji sniffs, texting over that photo no matter what Mizuki says, "I really do hate you. You just wish that _you_ had someone so perfect to admire, just like I do with Tezuka--ah, wait. That's right. Your taste is skewed, and you wish you were _me_." 

 

“Between the two of us, who is actually dating someone?” Mizuki asks idly, thumbing to his last-marked page in his Physics book. “And which has a sad wall full of blurry photos in place of love and companionship?”

 

"I'm sorry--I didn't realize that dating consisted of sad text messages with limits on talking about me every single day," Fuji hums, climbing out of bed to glide his way off to the bathroom to properly dry off and comb out his hair, at the very least. "I, unlike you, had a perfectly lovely relationship that I deliberately terminated prior to moving here." 

 

“A perfectly lovely relationship?” Mizuki snorts. “You broke up with him because you thought you were cancer to him. Also, he looks like a more bara version of your baby brother, how Egyptian of you.”

 

"I _am_ cancer, but it was still perfectly lovely. Also, I'm done traveling around the world, so you can stop with the country references that you think make you sound _so_ intelligent." 

 

Mizuki resists (barely) the urge to insist, _Everyone but you thinks I’m a delight! You’re the problem!_ and instead turns to flip pages in his Physics book for no reason. “Whatever. I took your brother’s virginity.” Daily reminder.

 

"And he took yours!" Fuji calls around the bathroom door. "Isn't that nice? You were at a Catholic school, and you _still_ couldn't get any more ass than that."  

 

“Why do you say _still?_ ” Mizuki demands, flushing dark red. “It’s not a boy prostitution school! There are extra lessons about resisting evil homosexual influences, it’s _horrid_ , why are you talking like it was easy-level?”

 

"Because repressed boys are easier to get in bed, obviously," Fuji sighs, drifting out again as he braids his hair over one shoulder and flops down into bed, still quite naked. "And you look enough like a girl that it shouldn't have been a challenge. Congratulations on failing on just about every single level."

 

“I didn’t _fail_ , bitch! I got the one I wanted!” Fuji usually makes Mizuki want to throw a book at his head, and today is no exception. “And that hairstyle makes you look like a dying mother in an anime with an improbably large dick!”

 

"You got the only one that you _could_ , more like. Also, stop being mad because you want my dick." 

 

“You’re the one calling your little brother the bottom of the barrel!” It always gets to the point of shouting. Every damn day. “You’re the one who won’t put it away either, you’re just dying for me to finally snap and jump on you, but I won’t give you the satisfaction!”

 

"I'm not calling him the bottom of the barrel. I'm calling him desperate, and you pathetically incapable," Fuji hums, finishing off his braid. "Also, I like being naked, so you can either deal or be more convincing about _not_ wanting to put your stupid whore mouth on it." 

 

Mizuki’s eyes narrow, and he stalks to the Tezuka Wall. “Oh, Shuusuke-kun, you’re right! Ah, I want you so bad, it just makes me....it makes me...want to put my fingers all over these photographs! I hope they don’t leave _smudges_!”

 

If there’s one thing they agree on, it’s the importance of abolishing smudges from certain items.

 

Fuji's attention snaps up, and he's immediately on his feet, darting over to the wall in question. "If you put your fingers on him," he flatly says, one hand already gripping Mizuki's wrist like a vice, "I'm going to tell Yuuta that you said my name the other day when you jerked off, and I was s~o traumatized." 

 

Mizuki rolls his eyes. “That wouldn’t exactly be news,” he shoots back, letting his hand hover an inch from the photos. “Given how many times _he’s_ said your name, I think I get a few free passes!”

 

"You're going to leave Tezuka out of this," Fuji serenely says, "or I'm also going to tell Class President Minato-kun that you want to go out on a date with him after all. A member of The Watashi Room, _finally_ giving up the goods! _Imagine._ " 

 

Mizuki’s hand inches closer, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re _bluffing_. You can’t afford to have a member of your dorm room dating a loser like Minato-kun! He’s sweaty and listens to Korean music!”

 

"But if my roommate is dating a loser like Minato-kun, then it will be _so_ easy to get a reassignment after summer vacation," Fuji sighs, squeezing Mizuki's wrist so hard that his own knuckles pop. "Won't that be fun, Ha-ji-me? You like a big, sweaty man, don't you? He still keeps insisting that your name is spelled with kanji when we both know it's not! It's with hiragana, like a _girl!"_

 

Mizuki’s face twists, and he wrenches his arm free, skulking back to his little corner long enough to grab his books and throw them in his bag, hefting it over his shoulder. “I’m going to do my homework in the library,” he announces, voice high-pitched and strained. “Where you were banned because your cell phone kept _meowing_ last week!”

 

Fuji hums, cheerfully throwing himself back onto his bed. "Ah, yes, the dulcet tones of Yuuta-kitty. At least I was banned for a good reason: getting texted far more often than Yuuta texts you at any given time."

 

That’s too stupid (and incorrect) for a response, and Mizuki storms out. His only stop before the library is to make _sure_ that the meal being sent to Fuji Shuusuke’s room tonight by special request comes with everything pickled that they can find.

 

~

 

The door shuts, and Mizuki falls dramatically back onto his bed, the last kiss still on his lips. That repose lasts for as long as it takes to hear the footsteps fade down the hallway, at which point he stands upright, glaring at Fuji as if he’d been personally responsible for every bad thing that’s happened in Mizuki’s life to date. “You,” he hisses, voice more high-pitched than he wants it to be, “have to ruin _everything_! You couldn’t leave us a _moment_ alone? It’s not _you_ he came to see, and you _know_ it!”

 

The first time Fuji had walked in when Mizuki was several inches deep in his little brother, he’d smiled, and pretended to ignore them, sitting at his desk as if they weren’t frantically scrambling to tug the blankets over themselves. The second time, he’d actually had the _gall_ to try and have a _conversation_ with Yuuta about something inane. The third and final time, Mizuki had nearly attempted to hit him, only refraining because Yuuta had grabbed him and dragged him off to the private bathrooms on the fifth floor, which were _not_ as sanitary as advertised, and by then the mood was almost completely dead, anyway.

 

Yuuta had only been in town for the weekend, and is back to Tokyo on the shinkansen, leaving a faint impression of his tacky aftershave (no doubt taken from someone at school) and body lotion (which Mizuki had not only purchased for him, but administered for him), not to be back again for months.

 

Fuji, unconcerned, delicately flops himself down onto his bed, a little smile on his lips. "I thought I gave you plenty of time alone with him. It's not my fault that you kept _insisting_ on fucking him in _our_ shared living space. I'm just as entitled to being here as you are, thank you very much." 

 

“You were _watching_ and _waiting_ , you creep!” Mizuki wants to throw something, but everything on his side of the room is too valuable, and everything on Fuji’s side is an active act of war, and he’s not _quite_ sure he wants to go there yet. “Literally every time we started doing something, you showed up! _During_ your scheduled activities, I might add! I know your schedule!”

 

"My schedule has changed," Fuji mildly offers up. "It's part of that whole 'applying myself' thing that I promised to do for the sake of my father's sanity. You _were_ fairly distracted, so I understand if you didn't get the memo." 

 

“There was no memo! Look!” Mizuki crosses the room, and rattles the empty box marked **MEMO**. “God, why do we even have the memo box if you’re not going to use it?”

 

Fuji examines his fingernails impassively. "It was a verbal memo, obviously." 

 

“That’s _not_ the rule for a schedule change, you _know_ that’s not the rule for a schedule change, and I _really doubt_ your schedule changed at all, because you just wanted to walk in on us!” Mizuki plants his hands on his hips, and makes a concerted effort to stop the “crazy eyes” Yuuta always calls him on getting when he’s angry. “If you’re that _desperate_ to get in the middle of us--”

 

"If you really think that I want that, then _you're_ the one that's sick," Fuji finally snaps, sitting up to make an actual effort of glaring in Mizuki's general direction. "Your ridiculous _rules_ don't apply when my little brother is involved, and for what it's worth, I _didn't_ deliberately walk in on you--the first time." Whoops. 

 

“Oh, then it’s _me_ you want to get a piece of?” Mizuki lets out a cackle of derisive laughter, and settles finally on throwing a pillow at Fuji, not that it’s terribly good as far as being lethal, but at least helps him get out some aggression. “Or are you just that determined to ruin his life?”

 

"Mostly, I wanted to see exactly how horrible you were in bed," Fuji snidely offers up, throwing the pillow back with deadly aim. "I wasn't disappointed, but my god, I bet Yuuta is every single night." 

 

The pillow’s accuracy is somewhat alarming, and Mizuki staggers back when it catches him off-balance. “Jealousy is an _ugly_ emotion, Shuusuke-kun,” he spits. “Is that fan club no good for satisfying your lust? Or are you running out of blurry pictures of Tezuka’s left ankle to rub your improbably large penis against?”

 

"You just keep bringing up my dick," Fuji sighs out. "Is it because yours is just not up to par, or is it because you just want to touch it _so_ badly?" 

 

“It’s because you won’t ever put it away and get it out of my face!” There goes the shrill tone of his voice again, and Mizuki can’t be fucking bothered to care. “You’re taking _thirst_ to a whole new level, I’m embarrassed _for_ you! No wonder Yuuta doesn’t want to talk to you!”

 

"Mm. You seem _so_ much more flustered about this than I am, I wonder who's the real thirsty one, actually?" Fuji flips open his phone with intense disinterest. "Yuuta seems more than happy to talk to me as of late, you know." 

 

“Because I keep telling him to text you! Because I want him to have a good relationship with his brother--which I’m going to stop doing now, and you can just _watch_ how quickly he forgets about you! Which is what he’s always wanted!” That tone in his voice is really no good at all, nor is the way his hands are balled into tight fists on his hips.

 

"Fine, then." 

 

Fuji hops up from the bed, and sets his phone down before walking right up to Mizuki, laying a hand on his chest. "If he forgets about me, that's a good thing," he lowly points out. "Or have you forgotten how much I've always ruined things for him? It would be much better if he _did_ stop texting me and _did_ stop thinking about me. The last thing that I need is for him to keep being _interested_ in me, you idiot, and that's why I'm hoping my ruining his time with you makes him hate me all over again." 

 

Mizuki grabs Fuji’s shirt, clenching his hands in the designer fabric with all the strength he can muster. “If that’s your goal,” he hisses, “why would you do it in a way that will fuck him up even more? You _know_ he can’t help but want you. The sick thing is, I think you _like_ it.”

 

Fuji exhales a laugh at that, unfazed and content to dangle from Mizuki's hold for the time being. "Maybe _you_ like it," he shoots back without a moment's hesitation, "because your biggest, most disgusting fantasy is my entire family in a bed with you in the middle of it."

 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Mizuki demands, shaking Fuji for good measure. “You’re far from the mark if you think _that’s_ the most disgusting one, though. Pick a new insult, yours are tired.”

 

Fuji idly sways. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that it's a bed draped in _paisley_."

 

“Are you _trying_ to give me an erection?” Mizuki demands. “If so, why?”

 

"No, so make sure you put that thing away. There's no one here that wants to see it now." 

 

There’s a very real desire to do _something_ to the Tezuka wall. Only the thought of what Fuji would do to his tableware collection is enough to keep Mizuki from moving. Mutually assured destruction isn’t a comfortable way to live, but it does provoke something of a truce. “And when’s the last time someone--that wasn’t me--saw yours, Shuusuke-kun?” he spits. “Do you even remember what human contact is like, or is this really doing it for you?”

 

Fuji's eyes almost audibly roll. "You're _grasping_ , Ha-ji-me," he sighs out, reaching up to dislodge Mizuki's hand with a hard, rough squeeze to his wrist. "Unlike you, I'm not so desperately dependent on the physical. I understand that's all you and Yuuta have left, but _honestly_ , don't push your unnecessary clinginess onto me." 

 

Mizuki shoves Fuji away and back onto his bed, _hard_. “Is there some particular reason you want to insert yourself between myself and Yuuta, apart from the _obvious_?” he asks, biting off each word.

 

Mizuki's gotten a bit stronger. Well. Noted. Fuji flops back with a slow, measured exhale, contemplating that for a long moment before responding. "I'm not inserting myself. I'm merely pointing out the obvious flaws, as per usual. Don't act like you haven't been struggling to hold his attention even without my interventions." 

 

“That’s really none of your fucking business! Long distance is _hard_ , okay?” Mizuki seriously wants to just challenge the asshole to a tennis match or something--but no, because he can’t even fucking win there. 

 

Deflated, he grabs his bookbag, as usual. “I’ll be back late. Just don’t talk to me tonight.”

 

"Why do you think I broke up with Taka-san? Other than the fact I'm trash, of course," Fuji tosses back over with a snort, rolling slowly over onto his stomach and reaching for his phone. It would be nice, at least, if Eiji would text. For the first week that Fuji was here, Eiji actually begged for help with his homework…until he figured out that _trying_ meant that it would be easier. "Go sulk in the library, I'll be here when you get back." 

 

“Ah. Joy. Rapture.”

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: ok so wtf**

**u wanna tell me what this weekend was about or ?? r u trying to make me ashamed of doin it or what**

 

Ah. Well. That wasn't the text he wanted, really. 

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Nope**

**Just happened to keep coming in at awkward times. And mostly I don't trust Mizuki as far as I can throw him, sorry!** ❤

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: !!**

**Rly uncool! u didnt have to listen to him bitch about that bathroom on 5th floor for 20 mins. so r u 2 doin it or do u just act like that**

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Gross**

**We aren't doing it! I promised you I wouldn't, and trust me, there's _no_ interest there. Don't be gross, Yuuta.**

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: ok but its YUUTA not N**

**ok just checking u seem rly close. n i get it hes a quired taste. next time im gonna invite him to st.r instead so u wont be bad timing.**

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: but Yuutan is so much cuter just like you**

**ww We aren't close, I hate him and we fight all the time. He just stormed out actually after thinking about threatening my Tezuka wall** ❤ **Anyway, you do that, then I'll have the room all to myself!** ❤❤

 

**To:** **Aniki**

**From:** **Yuuta**

**Subject:** **:/**

**ok** **as** **long** **as** **we** **r** **clear.** **it** **was** **good** **to** **see** **u** **tho.** **ur** **hair** **is** **sooo** **long** **but** **have** **u** **lost** **weight?** **u** **ok?**

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject:** ❤ **you're so cute** ❤

**I love it when you worry about me, Yuuta** ❤  **I'm fine, don't worry! Do you think I look even more like a girl like this, apparently that's popular right now, who knew.**

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: ur gross**

**yumiko says ur going to die in a beautifully tragic way so they make a movie about u starring that guy in her dumb magazines. that seems dumb!! r u coming home 4 summer**

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Yes**

**That sounds pretty cool. But yep, I'm coming home this summer, just a few more weeks** ❤

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: ok**

**Its weird when ur not here.**

 

Mizuki slams the door open, flouncing back inside. “I’m wearing the wrong shirt for the library,” he announces, and shuts and locks the door, stripping off his shirt and immediately choosing another, far more suitable one.

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: I'm sorry**

**You'll see me again soon enough. Keep doing well in school, okay?**

 

"There's a wrong shirt for the library now?" Fuji offers up with a roll of his eyes, dropping his phone. "If you're going for nerd chic, rethink and throw away all of your paisley." 

 

“You’re far too jealous of the obvious quality of my shirts,” Mizuki informs him, going through three before settling on the one he truly wants, which just _happens_ , yes, to be paisley. “This has a 700 thread count, Shuusuke-kun. It’s _Egyptian_.”

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: yeah ok**

**i got 2nd place at a tournament. and an A in an English test. Dad said it could have been 1st place.**

 

"Burn it, it makes you look fat."

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Ignore Dad tho**

**That's awesome! Next time, tell me when you're playing, I want to go watch and cheer you on.**

 

“Your continued jealousy astounds me. Coming from someone’s dying mother--” Mizuki cuts off his tirade, finally asking, “Are you _really_ planning to wear your hair like that to your audition? It isn’t even properly braided.”

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: fine**

**its when ur gonna be home this summer. u can come if u want.**

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: I'm definitely coming**

**So long as you make sure to win for me!**

 

"It looks cute," Fuji defensively snorts, sitting up enough to give Mizuki a decidedly bored stare. "What do you know about hair, anyway, Purple-Hair-Dye-kun?"

 

“I know you shouldn’t frame your face like that if you’re starting with a heart-shaped face like that,” Mizuki says, letting the paisley shirt hang open as he advances, tapping his chin with one finger and frowning. “You’re auditioning for which kind of role? I can do better braids than that in my sleep.”

 

Fuji stares up at him, the oddest mix of intrigued and put out, and just sighs, glancing back down to his phone one last time.

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Gotta go**

**I'm being harassed. Talk to you later, Yuutan!**

 

"Explain your credentials, and maybe I'll let you touch my hair." Fuji's eyes narrow. So _that's_ where the strength has been coming from. Shoulders. Mizuki does have a few more shoulders now. _Where did those_ come _from?_

 

Mizuki rolls his eyes, and then rolls up his shirt sleeves. “I have four sisters,” he says dryly, and knows that _should_ be credential enough. “What I’ve forgotten about braids is more than you could ever learn. Updo, or down?”

 

**To: Aniki**

**From: Yuuta**

**Subject: OI!!**

**I TOLD  U NOT TO CALL ME THAT IM GOING TO TELL MIZUKI U LIKE IT WHEN HE CALLS U SHUU-KUN**

 

Fuji twitches, wavering between reactions both at current, and over the phone. 

 

**To: Yuutan**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: No**

**Now is not the time for this YUUTAN especially because I absolutely do not like that very much THANK YOU**

 

"Up, I think." Fuji sets down his phone for good, and sighs, shrugging. "Pretty is the goal. I'm apparently being scouted here because I look like a girl. It's some dumb stage play, though. Apparently, my agent seems to think the next best thing for me is to jump headfirst into an idol farm."

 

“Turn around.” Mizuki dismantles the current braid in a matter of about two seconds, slender fingers quickly unraveling the clumsy strands. “Honestly, with hair like this, you should always wear it up. Hiding your face is doing you no favors, you know.” He deftly separates the hair into several sections, using a fingernail instead of a comb, and settles in to work. “This doesn’t have to reference any particular era or time period, does it?” Not that his sisters ever cared whether their hair was more Romantic or Elizabethan, but it had helped to keep him sane.

 

"Nope." Huh. Well. That feels surprisingly good. It's not like he's had hair this long before, so there's not exactly been an impetuous for anyone to play with it or do anything with it. This is pretty damn nice, though, and Fuji tries not to think about how it's Mizuki and Mizuki's _hands_ that feel good. "Just do whatever. If it looks bad, I'll blame you and _you_ can deal with my dad when he's livid that I didn't succeed at something." 

 

“Hearing a disappointed parent shouting, what a _nightmare_ ,” Mizuki says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re probably the only person that is unaccustomed to that feeling, Shuusuke-kun.” His fingers work quickly through the hair, and he murmurs, “There’s so little of split ends here. Those expensive products must really work, hm. How disappointing.”

 

"What's disappointing about that?" Fuji huffs, tilting his head back to blink at him. "I told you that stuff works. Oh, is it because you'll never be able to afford it without rooming with me?" 

 

“I had hoped that the multi-billion dollar health and beauty industry was merely a front to scam hardworking citizens out of their money, and one was as good as another.” Mizuki straightens Fuji’s head, business-like, and finishes up one side, moving to the other. “What a pity the lies are actually true. Yet another system to buy into.”

 

"Well, it's the same in sport equipment, you know. Say what you will about professionals being able to play with any kind of racquet, but they all have our preferences for a reason--certain tools augment certain skills, and make it easier." Fuji tries not to feel himself being lulled into an odd state of relaxation. Mizuki doing his hair should make him nervous, not sort of oddly pleased. "But if it makes you feel any better, whitening creams are definitely all a lie. I'm just blessedly pale, and Yuuta is, well. Not." 

 

“That, at least, I’d never have a reason to find out.” He sighs, and completes another section, moving on to a more difficult part, fingers flying through the thick tresses with ease. “I do miss having a team of dark-skinned men. It made it so much easier to stand out, beauty-wise.”

 

"Mnn, but we're in Kyoto now. It's not like Tokyo; bad skin and bad teeth everywhere," Fuji sighs, his eyes lidding before eventually he gives up and shuts them entirely. "Which is why I make so much money modeling down here, and why everyone at this school wants to eat us both alive."

 

“What do you even do with all the money?” Mizuki asks. It’s easy to be conversational like this. Hair-braiding is one of the few good memories he has of his sisters, when they’d talk to him like a normal human, like an actual sibling, like someone with something to say. “You don’t strike me as the good boy with the swollen savings account, but I never see you buy anything expensive, either.”

 

"Eh." Fuji gives a little shrug. "I _used_ to be the friend that always took everyone else out to dinner, but it's not like I have anyone to do that with down here. I've mostly been saving it this semester--in case, I dunno, the off-chance I knock up a girl and she needs an abortion or something."

 

“Beautiful.” Mizuki sighs, and moves on to the last strand, and its complicated whorls. “Yuuta swore to me that you were the proper kind of gay, the one that was only in it as a hobby, not professionally. I assume the rumors are true, then, and you have visited ladies with those wondrous skills of yours?”

 

"…A _proper_ kind of gay," Fuji echoes, unable to stop from laughing at that. "Yuuta is so stupid sometimes, isn't he? Mm, but at any rate, yes, I _have_ slept with a few girls. Perks of being around a lot of wanna-be movie stars and being the little brother of a relatively famous actress." 

 

Mizuki sighs, shaking his head. “Have you really? What’s it like? Anyone famous enough that I’d know them, bearing in mind that I detest J-pop?”

 

"The lead singer of that one stupid girl group…ahh, I don't know the name, but _her_ name is Riria. Her face is everywhere, the one with the two ponytails." Fuji shrugs. "Anyway, it's all right. Girls are a lot easier than guys, I think. They also expect less, because most guys are awful, and so if you give them anything good, they're thrilled." 

 

“Are they as soft as they look?” A sad question, maybe, but the curious intimacy of having his hands threading through Fuji’s hair goes both ways. Besides, _the one with the two ponytails_ isn’t much to go on, unless... “Wait. The one on the poster they have hanging in the student union? Aren’t they performing in town next week? But Shuusuke-kun, she’s _lovely_.”

 

"They're all pretty and soft at the end of the day," Fuji dismisses, making a face. "You know, there's nothing more jarring than you calling me that when this is otherwise rather good, so can you stop? I hate my name." 

 

Mizuki blinks. “Do you really? I never knew. What should I call you, then?”

 

"…Weren't you calling me that to just irritate me, though?" Fuji weighs the pros and cons, and then sighs, allowing this one defeat. "Just Shuu or Shuu-kun is fine. It's not _much_ better, but there aren't many ways to go from there." _Fujiko_ was a dozen times cuter, but that's reserved.

 

“I thought it irritated you,” Mizuki explains, “because it was overly-familiar. I don’t mind calling you Shuu-kun, though.” He ties off the last braid, and tucks it in to disguise the ends. “There, see if you like that.”

 

Fuji reaches up to tentatively touch his hair as he rises to his feet, drifting off to a mirror. It's _surprisingly_ pretty, twisted all up into braids like this, and he's fairly certain that he would never be able to duplicate this on his own. Hmm. "It actually looks really good," he admits, rocking back onto his heels. "Maybe you should consider this as a career. Girls would flock to you, if that's what you're into." 

 

“I’m certainly not opposed in theory,” Mizuki admits. “But, well, there’s Yuuta. Besides, any fool with swift fingers can be a hairdresser, I’m meant for something better.” And he’d have to hear girls chatter all day, _ugh_.

 

"If you're bored when Yuuta isn't around and you want a taste, just come with me to my auditions," Fuji dryly offers as he sidles back over to his bed. "Girls everywhere. _Everywhere_. You can literally have your pick, and they're fine with just fucking you once and never talking about it again." 

 

“And I’m sure you’d _never_ bring that up to him when we had a fight,” Mizuki scoffs, flopping down on his bed and pulling out that damn Physics book again. “Such a foolproof plan. You know, there are easier ways to break us up, if you must.”

 

"I'm not saying that I wouldn't bring it up to him," Fuji hums, fishing around for his bag and coat. "But I'm genuinely offering this lovely opportunity to you. If I wanted you two to break up, that would be easily done, you're not wrong."

 

“Not _that_ easy. We’ve made it this long, after all.” Despite the fact that there have been some....setbacks, and the fact that Fuji Shuusuke’s model friends definitely seem attractive so far from what he’s heard.

 

"Uh huh. Long distance relationships sure do suck, don't they?" Fuji throws his coat over one shoulder, waltzing off towards the door. "Well, I guess I'll just have to mention my nebulous _friend_ who did my hair, then. A shame they don't have a face to put to such skill." 

 

There’s an ache there, but oh, well. It’s not like Mizuki isn’t used to being annoyingly hard these days, not after Yuuta’s visit. Speaking of which, he _certainly_ has some unfinished business to take care of that way, so he flaps a hand. “Let me know when one of them looks like Audrey Hepburn. Break a leg.”

 

**To: Fujiko-chan** ❤

**From: Eiji**

**Subject: Hoi Fujiko-chan!**

**LOOK AT MY GRADES I’M NOT SENDING BACK CRYING FACES TO MY MOM!!!**

 

**Attachment: grades.jpg**

 

Fuji makes a valiant attempt not to sulk (someone to be bored with for hours, thwarted, of course!), and Eiji, at least, makes that somewhat easier. 

 

**To: Eiji**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: I'm so proud of you!**

**That's amazing, Eiji** ❤❤❤   **If you need help in the future, though, let me know. I promise I've got time to help!**

 

Ah, that was a little too pathetic, wasn't it? Whatever. It's been a weird day.

 

**To: Fujiko-chan**

**From: Eiji**

**Subject: WOOHOO**

**Orrrrr you could come up for some fun weekend stuff instead of just boring school? Hmmm??? Now that my grades are up NO ONE will stop me from having a party!!!**

 

**To: Eiji**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Summer vacation, then**

**We'll meet up this summer. I'm not allowed to do anything except ~goal-oriented activities~ right now.**

 

Fuji pauses, then against his better judgement, sends another text that he sort of wants to kick himself for. 

 

**To: Eiji**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: One more thing**

**Have you heard anything from Taka-san lately?**

 

**To: Fujiko-chan**

**From: Eiji**

**Subject: YOU’RE A BIG DUMB**

**im calling you typing is boring**

 

The phone rings a minute later, blasting out a cheery tune.

 

 _This is not what I wanted_ , Fuji thinks to himself with an inward groan, but he answers his phone on his way out of the dorms, anyway. "Eiji," he patiently says, "I have to get on a train soon, so I can't talk for that long." 

 

“Boo, you should have said that,” Eiji sighs, and flops down onto his new squishy chair hard. “You can go whenever, but you _have_ to call me later, okay? Anyway, Taka-san is like a full-time chef now, we go see him every time we’re in the neighborhood.” It’s always _we_ these days. It had been going that way before, but with Fuji gone...

 

"That's why I was just texting you." _Because the last time_ I _called, you talked for three minutes and then Oishi came in and that was over._ Ugh. Gross. Being the third wheel was fine and dandy when he had other distractions, but out here, in hot-as-fuck Kyoto with no friends, no tennis, no little brothers…no boyfriend… "That's good to hear, though. I'm glad he's keeping busy. He's happy, right? He overworks, that's less good." 

 

“Yeah, he’s working really hard,” Eiji agrees. “Hey, you know who’s like, always in there talking to him?”

 

 _A challenger appears._ Fuji immediately feels himself bristling, even though he knows he logically has no right. "No. Who?"

 

“Saeki, that guy from Rokkaku. Well, I guess he’s from Seigaku now. I’m surprised more people from other teams haven’t tried transferring in, you know? Ahh, it makes me miss Seigaku...”

 

Oh, never mind. That's a sigh of relief for sure. "He's a lunatic. You know he just transferred in because he thought I'd be there, right?" 

 

“Yeah, I know. Everyone knows, because he tells everyone who asks even a little bit.”

 

"That's so embarrassing. I wish Taka-san would turn him into a sushi roll and feed him to the seagulls." 

 

“That’s weird, Fujiko-chan.” It doesn’t stop Eiji from giggle-snorting, though.

 

"But it's valid!" Fuji sighs, fishing out his rail pass as he crosses the street. "All right, I'm at the station. You call _me_ later, when you actually have time to talk and Oishi isn't going to interrupt." 

 

“Fine, fine. And--hey, what do you mean? He isn’t interrupting this time, your stupid dumb train is interrupting!”

 

"How about the last time," Fuji patiently says, "and the time before that."

 

“Okay, but _this time_ \--”

 

"Bye, Eiji." _Eiji_ would have come with him to this stupid audition. He probably would have dragged Oishi along, and Oishi would have gotten cast, too, knowing their luck. 


	8. Fuji & Mizuki, Mizuki & Yuuta

“Aniki.” Yuuta’s tone is serious, and he steps in front of his brother, putting his hands on narrow shoulders and looking him straight in the eye, even there on the train platform. Fuji hadn’t exactly volunteered to come, but his next meeting had _just so happened_ to be on the way, and things had aligned...and it’s enough to make Yuuta slightly apprehensive. “You have to promise me that you won’t hang out with Mizuki-san the whole time he’s here.”

 

Fuji blinks up at him, his head tilting. "Why would I _ever_ want to spend time with him?" he asks, honestly baffled. "I see enough of his horrible face every day at school."

 

It's not an unfair question, admittedly, because this is all his fault. It's all because of Stockholm Syndrome, of course, but still. Caged in a dorm room with someone like Mizuki for the entire Spring and early Summer has done a number on him, he's certain of it, and that's why--

 

_"You're staying here for the summer? But they turn off the A/C, you know that, right? Forget it, just spend it with Yuuta at our house."_

 

"He's all yours, Yuuta. _Trust_ me on that." 

 

“Okay. Cool.” Yuuta drops his hands, shoving them in his pockets, and looks down to see when the next train will arrive. “I know he’s kind of an acquired taste, and when you guys are rooming together you talk about each other an awful lot.”

 

"Eh? Do we?" Fuji doesn't recall this. He shrugs his bag up onto his shoulder again properly. "I just complain about him. There's nothing acquired about that, it's all obvious." 

 

Yuuta rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Aniki. Just keep hating him, I’ll make sure he’s out of your hair.”

 

He can’t help but feel that secretly, it’s probably a matter of time before Mizuki and Shuusuke _do_ wind up together. It’s not exactly a good feeling, or one he’s proud of having, but damned if he’s going to make it easy on them. “I can’t believe he came down all the way from Yamagata.”

 

"I can," Fuji lightly says. "Apparently, his family is dreadful. Were they that bad when _you_ went to visit them?"

 

Yuuta gives a little shudder that he feels down to his toes. “Uh, yeah. His Mom...kind of reminds me of Mom, but like, without money. Or meds.” Both of which do a lot to contribute to how easy it is to deal with their mother. “Mostly the whole time we were there we went to his old tennis courts and stuff.” He snorts. “You should hear him slip back into Yamagata-ben up there. Or don’t, you’ll never stop teasing him.”

 

"Does he _really?_ Oh, I bet he sounds like an awful hick." That seems highly entertaining and worth experiencing at least once. The mother thing, though… _great_. Small wonder Mizuki was more inclined to roast in Kyoto's heat than go back home for any long period of time. "Well, at least Mom's medicated thoroughly right now. And Yumiko's…well." 

 

“She’ll be fine. She’s...resting.” It’s not that easy to get to a point where Yumiko is much better than _fine_. It seems to run in the family, or at least, in the women of the family. Yuuta has often wondered if that applies to Shuusuke. He remembers something, and adds, “And his dad practices singing in a room that’s not soundproofed. Like, at all. And I’m not even going to _touch_ his sisters...and no one else ever will, either.”

 

"Aren't you glad that you're so normal, Yuuta?" Fuji sighs, giving his arm a light pat. "And with Yumiko in Switzerland and me in Kyoto, you don't even have to _think_ about siblings. It should be refreshing." 

 

Yuuta rolls his eyes, and turns back to waiting for the stupid train. “You’re really dumb if you think I don’t think about you when you’re gone.”

 

"That's so sweet of you! But I was referring to the fact that at least I'm not here to ruin your day all the time. You know, like siblings do." 

 

“That’s definitely better.” Yuuta gives his brother a punch to the arm. “You can just ruin Mizuki-san’s day instead. Seems like you like doing that an awful lot.”

 

Fuji sways with a smile. "I _do_. It's so satisfying to ruin every single hour of every single day for him. The only thing he's good for is doing my hair, after all; there's no reason to be nice. Oh, look, the train."

 

Mizuki stumbles off the train, hauling a suitcase nearly the same height as himself, and dramatically tosses back his hair. “Yuuta-kun, aren’t you even going to come help me?”

 

“Gotta go,” Yuuta mutters, and runs forward to lift the suitcase off of the train, getting it safely onto the platform...and abruptly winding up carrying it himself as Mizuki immediately drops it.

 

“That was _murder_ on my hands, there’s no reason a simple train ride should require so much walking. You’re a darling for getting that for me. Ahh, Shuu-kun, looking like a gorgeous victim of a wasting sickness as always.”

 

Hmm. Even being away from Mizuki for less than a week yields some…results. He's taller. Has he always ben precisely that tall? Fuji doesn't frown, however, and instead offers him a brilliant smile. "You're sweating already," he says. "Maybe if you took off that hideous coat, you'd suffer less, and so would we." 

 

Mizuki huffs, and at least unbuttons the coat, letting in some stagnant, humid air. “It wouldn’t fit in my suitcase,” he explains, “and I could _hardly_ travel without it. Good lord, where’s my--ah, there.” Success, he fishes out his pocket square and dabs at his face. None of this is _any_ good, except, of course, that Yuuta looks so charming. “Your arms look so strong, I can see how hard you’ve been working,” he says, voice softening as he lays a hand on one developing deltoid.

 

Yuuta bites his lip, and starts dragging the suitcase. “Not here, Mizuki-san.”

 

Fuji's eyes roll skyward. "I'm going to leave all of this to you, Yuuta," he offers up, stepping past them both. "I have my own train to go and wait for. Be a good host and _don't_ let him near my at-home Tezuka wall. He's not to be trusted, obviously." 

 

“Ah, the lure of the Tezuka wall,” Mizuki proclaims. “The true reason you didn’t want me staying at the dorms when you were gone, Shuu-kun?”

 

Yuuta grabs Mizuki’s sleeve with his free hand, dragging him down the stairs. “Don’t hurry back, Aniki. We’re _busy_.” Under his breath, where only Mizuki can hear it, he adds, “And my room has a _lock_.”

 

It's time to remember that tuning out Mizuki and Yuuta is usually the wiser choice. 

 

Rehearsal, at least, is predictable. It's something that takes his mind off of the fact that his little brother is probably getting fucked _right then_ by a total slime ball that has grown more than a few centimeters over the past few months and has shoulders that are getting annoyingly broad. At some point, Fuji wonders if he'll have a chance to show Mizuki that antique market that he's been bragging about, and misses more than a few cues. Ah, well. It's not the first time he's worked a space cadet personality to the fullest. 

 

Afterwards, there's _supposed_ to be a meet up with Eiji. Just Eiji, not Oishi, but somewhere along the way, those lines get crossed and it's clear from Eiji's text messages that it has already turned into a date between just those two. Home, Fuji sourly thinks, sounds better than this. 

 

He's unwinding his hair from a sorry excuse of a braid (Mizuki always does it better, damn it) when he walks into the door, wishing immediately that he at least had the backup of Yumiko on his side. His mother's in rare form in the kitchen (he can hear it, as well as smell it), and that makes him want to make a swift retreat to his bedroom to never emerge again. 

 

It’s circumstance, rather than plan, that makes Mizuki emerge from Yuuta’s room just then, looking decidedly dazed, pleased, and artfully rumpled. “Ah, Shuu-kun!” he says with a smirk, leaning back against a wall as he tugs the door shut. “How was rehearsal? Oh no, did you go with your hair like _that_?”

 

"I'm in the process of taking it down," Fuji sulkily says, yanking the rest of it down in short order just to prove his point before glowering _up_ at him. Yes, that's definitely new. Or is it? Maybe he's just been so _used_ to the asshole that it's not new. His hair is also longer, but he's known that, right? The cost of hair dye has gone up because of it. "First rule of this house, by the way. If you're gonna bang my brother, at least don't do him against the wall that connects our two bedrooms. I don't want to hear it." 

 

“You weren’t home.” Mizuki shrugs. “He likes it facedown anyway, why would I want to do it up against the wall? That takes _so_ much effort for a minimal increase in reward. Anyway, how was the audition?”

 

"I'm a super star, that's nothing new." The shock value of Yuuta being facedown and getting fucked by Mizuki the Slimelord is gone by now in spades, and so Fuji merely flops his way back against his own bedroom door, eyebrows raising. "There were lots of cute girls there, working on another show. A few were definitely your type." 

 

“You have no idea what my type of girl is,” Mizuki says warily, though he’s long since learned not to believe too strongly in Fuji Shuusuke’s weaknesses. “You’ve never seen me with a girl I found particularly attractive, with the exception of your sister.”

 

"'Let me know when one of them looks like Audrey Hepburn.' Barring that, I'm sure if one looked like me, that would work," Fuji sweetly offers up, pawing at his door knob and slowly drifting into his bedroom. "But you weren't there, so I fucked her instead." He didn't, but Mizuki doesn't have to know that. "Annnyway, I'm going to go and take a nice, long, _hot_ shower. Enjoy Yuuta's room that smells like a very poorly maintained gym!"

 

There’s a swell of jealousy, but Mizuki tamps it down. Someday, _someday_ , he’ll definitely have a girl, and she’s going to be _just_ as pretty as anyone that Fuji Shuusuke has ever had the pleasure of having. He turns on his heel and stalks back into Yuuta’s room, hauling a half-asleep Yuuta up from the bed. “Yuuta-kun,” he asks, eyes blazing, “which wall is closest to your brother’s shower?”

 

“Eh, Mizuki-san? Uh, that one--but--”

 

Five minutes later, his words have faded to not-very-muffled moans, and Mizuki’s new height is being put to very good use.

 

Fuji just settles for staring into the steam of his shower with a long, put out sigh. 

 

Without a single surprise to anyone, Fuji gets the part, and is handed a schedule two days later. Grueling, but not impossible over the summer, and it's all _indoors_ , which is important when the heat is so completely and utterly terrible. 

 

He's up early to a silent house, scouring through his lines and cranking up the air conditioner before his mother wakes up and talks about how it will just make their bodies weak. _Whatever_ is about the extent of Fuji's thought processes on the matter, especially when all he can think about is _maybe this will make Dad leave me alone for five minutes, if nothing else_ and more importantly, _maybe he'll buy me tickets to Wimbledon, please and thank you._

 

“Isn’t this nostalgic?” Mizuki emerges, draped in his favorite dressing gown (which he doesn’t bring to school for fear that it will snag, but he’s about to outgrow it anyway). He sits carefully on the sofa, looking around. “It’s so quiet in the mornings. That’s...nice.”

 

Fuji leans back in his chair, eyebrows raising. "That does you _no_ favors, you know. The shoulders are killing it." More importantly: "Mom won't be up for another few hours. She and Yuuta both would never get out of bed if they could…which means, of course, that he's missing the one part of the day that he can actually practice in." 

 

“It’s been brutally hot,” Mizuki agrees, trying to surreptitiously check out his own shoulders. Damn, Fuji’s right. He _hates_ that. “Most of my family is the same. I suppose I’ve just never liked sleeping much. How do you Southerners _stand_ the heat?”

 

"Are you seriously trying to call residents of Tokyo _Southerners?_ You're such a hick." Fuji glances back down to his script, sighing. "This is abnormally hot, though. Did you hear that they're considering postponing Nationals for both the middle school and high school divisions?" 

 

“Are they really?” Mizuki sighs, tightening the sash of his robe against the insult to his geographical location. “What a shame. I had so hoped to be here when Yuuta wins. He will, you know. He’s gotten much better.”

 

"Mmn…you've still got a week long window. Maybe you'll get lucky." Fuji's eyes flick up briefly, then down again. "He's not going to be up for a few more hours, obviously, so did you want to go out and get breakfast or something?"

 

Mizuki’s eyes light up. “I’ve been _dying_ for a proper cafe breakfast the entire time I’ve been away from Tokyo,” he confesses. “Give me ten minutes to change. Five, if you’re in a hurry, but my hair will be a mess.”

 

"I'm not in a hurry. When you're done, come back down and fix my hair, too. I hate it when it's all in my face, but I'm apparently not allowed to cut it." 

 

Mizuki changes quickly, and sets his hair even faster before coming back downstairs, immediately clambering up behind Fuji on the couch to start running his fingers through his hair (a sensation he has, curiously, missed). “Up, down, to the side? Any preference?”

 

Thank _god_ there's no paisley today. Fuji wasn't ready for that argument so damnably early and over summer vacation. "Up, I think, because it's going to be so hot," he says, shutting his eyes and leaning back into the touch, just a little. "Otherwise, I don't care." 

 

“I’ve got the time today,” Mizuki informs him, “so I’m going to be a little...hmm, artistic. This may take a little while.” With that said, he immediately starts separating strands, tucking and twisting them away. “You don’t seem that happy to have the role, Shuu-kun.”

 

"Ah, is that how I'm coming off?" Fuji settles in more comfortably, having been warned that it might take awhile. "It's not like I'm unhappy about it. Mostly, I just hope it's enough to make my dad shut up for right now." 

 

“Why don’t you pick something you actually care about?” Mizuki suggests, an eyebrow raised. “You obviously aren’t too bothered about acting. Hold this strand for a moment, will you? Good, now give it back.”

 

"I like acting well enough. I usually like doing things where I'm told how pretty I am and how surprising it is that I'm good at something. _They_ didn't think I could sing." Fuji is still in the mood to gloat about that. "My other options really just include tennis at this point, and I'd really rather not go there again." 

 

“Oh? I’ve heard you’re fantastic at all winter sports, not to mention curling. Ah, that reminds me, we should play ping-pong sometime.” Finally, _finally_ , he’ll see that weakness.

 

"I haven't done any of that for _years_ , though. I'm too old to play catch up now," Fuji complains. "And I don't want to play ping-pong with you, you'll start doing that horrible laughing thing that you do and I hate that." 

 

“Only when I win,” Mizuki promises. “What about my laugh is horrible, exactly?” The inclination to yank at Fuji’s hair is a fleeting one. A true stylist never betrays that sacred trust.

 

"It's strange and ill-placed. Also, vaguely evil, which at this point, you should know better. Subtlety is key." 

 

“What if I’m _going_ for cartoon villainy?” Mizuki counters, and flips hair into Fuji’s eye, only to whip it out again, deftly tucking that strand away.

 

"Then stop, because it's not good," Fuji deadpans, twisting around to snap at one of Mizuki's hands in revenge. "That's the kind of thing that makes no one want to be your tennis student."

 

“ _Plenty_ of people want to be my tennis student,” Mizuki shoots back, and holds up a warning finger. “No opening your mouth like that unless you want something else in it,” he warns, and goes back to braiding, as businesslike as he can be after that little exchange. “People with _taste_.”

 

Huh. Well. That's a reaction his body sure is having. An eyebrow ticks up, and Fuji pointedly faces forward again, frowning to himself. "No one wants to put up with you and your personality, even if they've heard that you actually have talent as a coach. It's not entirely your fault; there is the fact that you've never coached anyone with any extraordinary talent." 

 

Mizuki starts to say something, then pauses, working in silence for a few moments. “Dangling someone’s dreams in front of them is not very kind, Shuu-kun,” he says at last. “I could train you. Ah, but you’re not playing tennis anymore, you’ve probably let that talent fade away.”

 

"It wasn't a deliberate dangle, for what it's worth. I genuinely don't consider myself a player anymore." Fuji draws in a deep breath, shoves other thoughts out of his mind, and thumbs distractedly through the script in his lap. "You just want to get out of Japan, don't you?" 

 

Mizuki’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Is it that obvious? To you?” He’d always thought it was. His room at home is covered with pictures of England, France, Spain, the USA, with tennis tournaments and victorious players and scenery that has nothing to do with it, littered with English books on tape and Teach-Yourself-French and _Don Quixote_ , and Fuji is the first person ever to ask if he wants to go somewhere.

 

Fuji's eyebrows raise slightly. "Both the schools you've gone to are all about International studies. You're always trying to get better at English. It's obvious. Even with tennis--focusing on the coaching aspect out of it will get you out of the country faster than anything, won't it?" 

 

“That has certainly always been the plan,” Mizuki admits. He switches to another section, incorporating it into today’s intricate swirl of fishtails. “What about you? Obviously you have the best English of anyone else in Japan. Do you want to use it, or is it just another squandered gift?”

 

"You really _are_ suffering from Stockholm, listen to all that praise," Fuji sighs, lidding his eyes. "I've thought about moving to England or somewhere a few times over. I'm not sure what I'd _do_ there, but…mm. I'm sure I could come up with something."

 

“Become a photographer, and take Tezuka-watching up as a viable career option?” Mizuki suggests. “Or would the constant erection make that something of a conflict of interest?”

 

Fuji makes a face. "Don't be disgusting. As if I'd _ever_ get an erection when it comes to admiring Tezuka." 

 

Mizuki’s head tilts so far to the side it nearly pops his neck. “You...eh? I was so sure...Okay, what _is_ it about, then? With you and him? I thought I had it figured, but this new information is throwing me for a loop.”

 

"He's perfect unobtanium and I do like that." 

 

“Ah.” Mizuki finishes a whorl, and moves on to the next, perfectly hiding the ends. “Yuuta once told me your only requirement for wanting to fuck a man was his disdain for you. I understand that he got it wrong, then? Is that actually your qualification for your twisted brand of love instead?”

 

"Yuuta really does think that he understands a lot of things, doesn't he?" Fuji feels like his eyes are going to roll out of his sockets one of these days. "Tezuka is a very special case. Perhaps it's because the way I imagine him is the opposite of what he's like, especially in bed."

 

“Ah.” Mizuki nods. “That makes sense. You have a version of him that you can’t let go of, and he’s the only thing in reality that speaks to your ephemeral ideal. But masturbating to the idea of him would be like ejaculating on the Mona Lisa, right?”

 

"God, that's _exactly_ it," Fuji groans, his shoulders sagging. "And it's very frustrating, especially when I actually want to put forth the effort of getting off." 

 

“I know this sounds a little silly and not quite like it,” Mizuki admits, “but I’m usually like that with the women I think about. The movie stars, the models--I couldn’t imagine myself actually being _with_ them, it’s sort of...sacred, somehow. Isn’t there anyone else you can use? Raphael Nadal usually does it for me.”

 

"You're so predictable." There are a few things he could get away with saying right now, _or_ he could be honest for five seconds, because this feels like some sort of odd bonding session. Fuji shrugs again, sort of wearily. "Honestly, I don't really bother anymore. I _used_ to just go and have fun with Eiji--yes, the redhead--before I was with Taka-san. Kyoto has been a study in 'what's a sex drive.'" That was _mostly_ truths. Fuji decides not to bring up the odd parts of his sex drive that have been showing up lately. 

 

“That sounds supremely convenient.” Mizuki hesitates--Fuji has shown that he has approximately zero compunction about using this kind of information against him, after all--and decides to go on. What’s the harm, really? “I’ve more or less come to the conclusion that I’m just going to be erect for most hours of most days. Hopefully it’ll wear off eventually, but it’s more or less been the case for a couple years now.” He leaves off mentioning the fact that he’d reinforced some of his underwear, just to keep things under control in class. No one needs to know about that. “It’s not like I’m always going off or anything, but it’s never terribly far from my mind, either.”

 

"I warned you. Long distance relationships are going to make it even worse," Fuji snidely says first and foremost, only to add more seriously, and begrudgingly: "The thing about hormones is that they really don't make sense. For example, I was more aroused by your stupid comment about putting something else in my mouth than I have been about anything else for the past month. That particularly stands out, by the way, because I don't even like giving blow jobs all that much." 

 

“That really _doesn’t_ make sense,” Mizuki says, and tucks up another strand of hair. “An act you don’t care for, and a person you despise. You sure you don’t want to go for a trifecta and throw in some eldritch horror?” 

 

He starts on the last strand, fingers deftly whirling through the last fishtail as he incorporates strand after strand in an elegant spiral. “Maybe someday you’ll find a proper button. In the meantime, you’re welcome to use the image of me forcing your head down on my cock.” Whoops, thus begins his daily erection, and this one looks to be a doozy.

 

Fuji opens his mouth, shuts it again, and quickly, _silently_ banishes that mental image with a swift thought of Yuuta. At least, that usually works, but apparently, even Yuuta isn't enough to make it go away. "Yeah, can we not talk about that anymore?" 

 

Mizuki’s laugh comes out high and a little strangled, and he tucks up the last strand. “Your hair is done, and my stomach is desperate for a proper croissant, and perhaps a quiche. Oh! Didn’t you say there was an antique market around here?”

 

"Yes, and I was going to show it to you if you were well-behaved." Fuji flips out his phone, distracting himself from delightfully annoying mental images (still!) by examining his hair and once pleased, taking a quick selfie. "I'm not sure if you've been well-behaved, but I do like my hair, so we can go, if you want." 

 

“Excellent.” Mizuki rummages for a minute before slinging his bag over his shoulder, placing sunglasses firmly over his eyes. Just because it’s sunny outside doesn’t mean he has to be _squinting_. One step outside the door, and he immediately turns around, takes off the thin outer shirt he’d been wearing, and comes back out in a tank top. “This heat is _abysmal_ ,” he complains. “How do you people live?”

 

"Um." That's about as far as Fuji gets for a moment, and he exhales a slow breath before fixing a smile on his face and pointedly _doesn't look at Mizuki anymore._ "With some effort. Here, carry my bag, your shoulders are big enough for that now." 

 

Mizuki sighs dramatically, and shoulders both bags. “I look like a harried husband carrying his wife’s purse,” he complains, and pushes the hair back from his face. “Are we taking the train, or walking?”

 

"Stop complaining about things that make you look surprisingly manly," Fuji finally snaps, barely resisting the urge to punch the slimeball in the arm for his trouble. "We're walking for breakfast, train for the market. Don't worry, it's my treat, you can properly enjoy yourself like I know you're dying to." 

 

“Excellent.” Mizuki stops counting coins in his head, wondering if he has enough for a croissant _and_ a latte, and resigns himself to eating just about everything and saving for the antiques market instead. “They said on the news it’s supposed to climb ten degrees today and just _stay_ there. Ugh, people are going to die at this rate.”

 

"That's why they're definitely going to postpone the matches," Fuji sighs, giving up on his own overshirt and shrugging it off to tie it around his waist. "Yuuta's going to be upset." _He's going to be more upset about this_ , a little voice in the back of his head warns him, and Fuji shoves it down, for some stupid, dumb reason (or lack thereof).  

 

“Your neck looks so long.” Mizuki studies it for a moment, tilting his head and frowning slightly. “In a good way,” he decides. “Elegant. Here, let me carry your shirt, there’s room in my bag.” _And it will keep you from looking quite so attractively disheveled, like a celebrity out for an early-morning jog in Beverly Hills._

 

"Hmm? Ah, all right, thank you." Fuji passes him the shirt, heaving a sigh. "I didn't have a chance to tell you about the part I got, did I? I mean, of course, it's for some _asinine_ stage play, but I think you might still find it amusing." 

 

“I enjoy asinine stage plays more than you could possibly imagine,” Mizuki says mildly, tucking the shirt into his bag. “What is it?”

 

"Imagine Tezuka on stage literally playing the exact same person that he is on a daily basis." Fuji's eyebrows raise. "And yes, with the glasses and everything." 

 

“Heh. Is that going to be strange for you?” Mizuki looks sideways at Fuji, trying not to make too big a deal of it. “What the hell play is this, anyway?”

 

"Some weird otome game adaptation. And no, I think I've embraced it wholeheartedly," Fuji breezily replies, tilting his head to the side in thought. "There are quite a few idiots around that are surprised that I'm _so_ nice when I'm not in character. Isn't that funny." 

 

“Cute. As if they’ve ever seen you out of character.” Mizuki lengthens his stride, keeping up with Fuji without having to work quite as hard for it as he’d remembered. “Out of _that_ character, maybe. Are you going to have legions of fangirls buying your bromides?”

 

Fuji sticks his tongue out. "Rude. Try not to blow my cover if I ever invite you to any of the shows. Of course I'm going to have a ton of them buying my bromides, do you _know_ how pretty I am?" 

 

“Shuu-kun,” Mizuki says patiently, “I actually spend quite a bit of time every day knowing how pretty you are.” Ah. Oops. Whatever, it’s not exactly a secret between the two of them or anything.

 

Everyone tells him that he's pretty, but this is different. Somehow. Sort of. Probably, it's because it actually sounds some kind of real, and that's… 

 

"We're here," Fuji announces before he can think about it for too long, shaking all of that off as if he's a dog jumping out of a lake. The restaurant is one of the few places that isn't a chain around here, and that's what makes it good, of course. "Just so you know, their pastries are _very_ authentic," he idly offers over his shoulder. "It's just like going to France."  

 

“I somehow doubt that,” Mizuki sighs, and follows him in, immediately snagging three or four pastries with the tongs. “Ah--croque monsieur! My _favorite_ , do you know how difficult it is to get something so simple done well? Shuu-kun, what can I grab you?”

 

"You're really being too much of a gentleman today, it's disconcerting." Deftly, Fuji snakes an arm around him from behind, all the better to nudge the tongs right where he wants them. "I'm having a dark chocolate craving today. At least I'm not like Yuuta, hmm? Picking up every single sickeningly sweet thing in the shop."

 

“He always pays, so it’s cute,” Mizuki reprimands, jumping slightly when Fuji is _that_ close to him. “Why don’t you go get our drinks and table, then? I’ll have a cafe latte, no foam.” Shit, do lattes come with foam? He hopes so, or that just sounded _stupid_. Yes, of course, he knows they come with foam, didn’t that one at the St. Rudolph Cafeteria come with foam? And the word “cafeteria” has the word “cafe” right in it, so it _must_ be right.

 

"I always pay, aren't I cute?" Fuji dryly tosses back over his shoulder before drifting off to a few varied compliments from the staff ("oh, your hair's so pretty!" and "I wish I could make mine do that!"). 

 

Yuuta is going to _kill him_. The thought dawns on him suddenly and abruptly when he settles down with their drinks. He _did_ promise not to go and hang out with Mizuki during this little vacation, but does this even count? Yuuta wasn't awake, and this is just killing time. Right. Yes. 

 

"I'm blaming you if this all comes back to bite me in the ass," he says the moment Mizuki comes over. Better to go ahead and clear the air, he supposes.

 

Mizuki frowns, sliding in with the pastries that he immediately starts sorting, then eating. “Why, did they make it weird? A latte is supposed to have foam, I just don’t like foam.” He takes the latte--yes, perfect--and sips delicately, trying not to let the liquid burn his tongue too badly.

 

"Ah, sorry. Skipped that verbal ladder. I was talking about the fact that we're here, right now." Fuji delicately selects something that looks way too chocolatey to be real and peels away the wrapper. _Really_ bitter and delicious, there is still a god. "Yuuta actually cornered me before you showed up, you know, and asked me not to spend time with you while you were here visiting. I already messed up, so if he gets mad, I'm blaming you." 

 

Mizuki blinks. “He didn’t ask me not to hang out with you,” he points out, and shrugs, moving on to the second pastry of the day, a flaky monstrosity stuffed with all kinds of sugared berries and cream, _heaven_. “I’m sure he just wants to make sure we have enough time together. The poor boy gets awfully desperate when we’re apart for too long.” He smiles, and points out, “I was invited as a guest of the family. I’m having a great time so far, god help me.”

 

"…All right." That doesn't do much to shake the feeling that Yuuta's going to throw a temper tantrum at any moment, but what does these days? "If he wanted to have more time with you, he could have invited you himself," Fuji mutters underneath his breath, briefly annoyed with his little brother's lack of planning. " _Honestly_. Serious question, why doesn't he call you Hajime? Isn't that _strange?_ " 

 

For a long moment, Mizuki is far too busy trying not to pass out from just how _delicious_ this confection is, and he groans helplessly, licking the rest of it off his fingers--inelegant as hell, but _scrumptious_. Any other time, he’d be annoyed by the question. “You’ll have to ask him. I’ve told him he can, many times. He says it would be weird.” He snorts. “As if it isn’t far weirder this way. And in case you’re wondering, yes, it’s _always_ Mizuki-san.”

 

"What the hell, Yuuta," Fuji deadpans, his chin in one hand as he sips slowly at his own drink, something decidedly frothy and gelatinous and apparently chili-chocolate. "Does that like, completely kill the mood for you, or does it make it better?" 

 

Mizuki takes a sip of his latte, and says frankly, “I’m just glad it’s my name he’s saying in those moments. It...” He looks sideways, and switches to clumsy English for the sake of the couple eyeing them the next booth over. “It better hearing even my last name than another name which mine is not.”

 

Roundabout, but charming, in its own way. "Your accent's gotten better," Fuji says, switching to English on his own end without skipping a beat. He tries very hard not to think about how nice it is to have someone _else_ that understands English at least decently well in the nearby vicinity. It's almost as if it's their own secret language, and that's stupid, oddly-- _no, don't say romantic, that's just pathetic._ "I thought he had stopped doing that entirely, though." 

 

God, Fuji’s accent is _phenomenal_. Even being next to him in English class (the most advanced level--Mizuki’s written is much better than his spoken) leaves that a startling surprise when it’s used so casually. Ugh, but this is easier, _nicer_ than worrying about being overheard, and hearing the words fall so gracefully from Fuji’s tongue is a lovely addition. “Not so much anymore it is,” he allows, thinking back. “Some days are difficult, he will rather ask me to make sure that the mouth is silent instead of a bad--instead of saying a bad name, for him.” His tongue is starting to loosen up now, good, though it’s still nowhere near Fuji’s level.

 

Fuji's lips purse, and he settles for finishing another pastry in record time as he mulls that over. "Sometimes," he slowly says, obviously still thinking about it, "I think that he makes a big deal out of it on purpose. I mean--it still is a big deal, but…" _Ugh_. 

 

“You think that it is...” Mizuki flounders for a word for a moment, eyebrows drawing together before he finds it. “He is searching for an attention. For a reason to feel like you are...causing the pain to him. If this is so, you don’t feel that way alone yourself.” His coffee is nearly done, which is a _shame_ , but if he has any more he likely won’t be leaving the bathroom any time in the next several hours, damn his sensitive stomach.

 

"Mm. I mean, seriously, the whole situation is…unfortunate," Fuji settles upon, grimacing at how awkward it is to even bring it up. Talking about it in English, somehow, he does feel a bit more detached from the situation, which is better. "But I don't think I really did anything wrong. I know you call me a brocon," he darkly adds before Mizuki can butt in, "but I _swear_ I've never thought about him like that." 

 

Mizuki sighs, and waves a hand at that. “I know. I know you do not actually want him in your bed for sex. But I think if there are...if maybe there are mind problems already, that your hobbies do not help. Innocent hobbies, but if he is wrong before, it do not help.” He blinks, and scribbles in the air with a finger. “Is ‘hobbies’ right? It sounds right, but I’m not certain.”

 

"Ummm…" Fuji blinks, briefly directing his gaze up at the ceiling as he pushes that mental translate button back to Japanese. "Maybe 'habits'? Ahh, whatever, point taken, let's just go antiquing so I don't have to think about it," he bemoans, pushing away from the table and taking his drink with him. "I really don't know what to do about him anymore. You're probably right, there's a lot of chemical unbalance floating around there." 

 

“Ooh, good word,” Mizuki murmurs, trying to remember the easy cadence of it for later. He drains the last of his coffee, dabs up a few crumbs and licks them off his finger, and takes the tray to leave it at its proper station. “You said a train, yes? Ugh, it’s been so long since I topped up my Suica. Are they still on the same system?”

 

"Yeah, just give it to me," Fuji says without skipping a beat. "It's hard not to use the train around in this area, so we might as well fill it up now. I'm sure Yuuta's going to want to drag you out in the heat more often, aren't you _ready?_ " 

 

“I’m already wishing I stayed at school for break,” Mizuki says, then laughs at himself. “No, I’m not. I would have just stayed in my room all day, studying and pretending I was going to go practice tennis in the heat. This is better, thank you for the invitation.”

 

"At least you'll be eating better even if you're roasting." It's only a short walk to the station from here, and Fuji can't help but idly note: "I was surprised when I found out Yuuta hadn't asked you already. What a brat." 

 

“In his defense, I do endeavor to look a little less pathetic to him,” Mizuki says, adjusting both bags on his shoulder. “But your invitation came at the perfect time, I’d just been informed that we were going to go to my grandmother’s for a few weeks.”

 

"You? Less pathetic? How does that even work?" Fuji deftly snatches Mizuki's Suica away from him once they reach the inside of the station, and tops it off with a 10000 yen note. "I'm assuming that your grandmother is at least a dozen times more dreadful than your immediate family," he says, passing the card back.

 

“Not precisely,” MIzuki says with a sigh. “She always has hard candy, at least, and she doesn’t really care if I lock myself in my room with books the entire time. The problem is that me, my parents, my four sisters and their boyfriends all have to go visit for weeks at a time because she’s dying or some shit, and she lives in a three-room house.” He swipes the card at the turnstile, and blinks at the “YEN REMAINING” total. “Oi, I thought you put in a thousand.”

 

"You'd run through that in no time, and Yuuta gets yelled at by Dad if he spends too much of his money on things." Fuji swipes his card, prodding Mizuki in the back to get him walking again. "That sounds dreadful, by the way. At least our house is pretty empty right now, what with Yumiko gone and Dad on a business trip. Oh, and our mom sleeping all day, can't forget that." 

 

Mizuki huffs slightly, and tucks his card back into his wallet, chucking it into the depths of his bag. “Your mother is home? I assumed she was in...Sweden? Switzerland? Something with an S, Yuuta says she’s usually displaced. Have I been rude to not meet her?”

 

"No, no, she'll come out when she's ready." Rather than lose Mizuki through the crowds, Fuji just firmly grabs him by the hand to pull him along through the station, which is, thankfully, not as packed as it could be earlier in the day. "I think she had an episode before we showed up. Nothing unusual there. Here we go." Up an escalator, and they're where they need to be. "It's only four stops away, thankfully." 

 

“She had an--oh.” Mizuki follows, startled by the unexpected information, and trots after Fuji (whose hand feels as nice in his own as he’d expected, and damn but that’s inconvenient). The train is nice and empty, and they both manage to snag seats at the head of the train, luckily enough. “I didn’t know she...” Mizuki looks around, and quietly switches to English. “My-- _mine_ , too. My mother. It is the same, maybe.” Not something he talks about, not something he’s even told Yuuta, but Yuuta’s never mentioned it either, and Yuuta still calls him Mizuki-san.

 

Yuuta was right, then. Fuji settles back into his seat, thinking, and only belatedly realizes that he's still holding Mizuki's hand when they sit down. It's almost too strange to pull it away _now_ , but he's thinking too much about it to let it stand. 

 

 _This is stupid_ , Fuji blithely informs himself, and settles for conversation instead. "Yuuta mentioned something about that," he says in English as well, shrugging lightly, feeling the way his fingers pull through Mizuki's with even just that, and hating the way his mouth goes dry. "It was just a guess, though. I'm not sure if it's entirely the same. Our mom--she's had doctors, and medicine, so I think it's easier." 

 

Mizuki sort of wants to punch himself in the face. Fuji’s fingers are entwined with his, which is unfair. The worst is that Fuji is speaking kindly, without artifice, about something that has brought him nothing but pain, and that quite simply isn’t allowed. 

 

Mizuki can handle Fuji Shuusuke as the object of his lust. He can handle Fuji Shuusuke as something untouchable, bitchy, as awful as he is lovely, and the brother of his boyfriend. He can handle Fuji Shuusuke as his roommate, and be very clear that that’s as far as it goes, because after all, it’s not like they _like_ each other.

 

Except here they are, going antiquing, holding hands on the train and speaking about their mothers, and their struggles. Fuck. 

 

Mizuki gives a half-hearted smile, and squeezes. “This is awfully bad,” he says, still in English, voice quiet. “Isn’t it?”

 

 _Don't acknowledge it, idiot!_ is the frantic snarl in the back of Fuji's mind that he _wishes_ would come to the forefront of his tongue in English, in Japanese, _something_. He wishes that he could think of something awful to say, but it's very difficult when Mizuki squeezes his hand like that and the urge to be a total and complete bitch goes out the window. 

 

"…Very bad," Fuji agrees finally, heaving a sigh as he sags back into his seat and doesn't exactly make any attempt to pull his hand away even now, when he _knows_ that he should. "You have nice fingers." An _acquired taste_. Someone just kill him now.

 

Mizuki looks up at the train schedule, and nods. “Until our stop,” he says quietly, rubbing his thumb gently against the back of Fuji’s hand. “Then we’ll stop.”

 

God. This is awful, and stupid, and really, _really_ bad. It can’t happen, of course. First and foremost, Fuji doesn’t even _like_ him, he’s just gone a little...stir-crazy. That’s far more likely than anything else. “Then I’ll remind you of all the things you hate about me,” he says blithely. “It’ll be quite enjoyable.”

 

The thought of that kind of zaps what's left of an argument from Fuji's mind--for two reasons. One, it's entirely logical. This is a stupid thing that they're even thinking about. If it goes _any_ further than this, Yuuta is going to lose his mind. And two--

 

Fuji swallows hard, annoyed and frustrated with himself anew, and he pointedly looks away. 

 

Right. _Two_ , if he keeps thinking about it, or trying to argue that this might be sort of stupidly, damagingly enjoyable, he's going to get so frustrated with himself that he'll start crying about it. In _public_.  

 

 _Been doing too much of that lately, haven't you?_ he wearily reminds himself, and pulls himself together. "It's genetic," Fuji answers with, too-cheerful right off the bat. "By the way. With Mom and Yumiko, it's sort of obvious, but I think Yuuta and I are worse off in some ways. You have bad taste." 

 

“Shuu-kun,” Mizuki says patiently, “we both do. Remember?” His laugher is more nervous than he’d intended, and there’s a hint of sadness he hadn’t meant, either. “Really, that’s half of the rationale.”

 

He folds his fingers over Fuji’s, and the train pulls into a stop. Not theirs. Two left. He swallows hard, toes rubbing against each other in his shoes, and tries not to look over at Fuji. “Except it isn’t, is it? God. It would just be...” Fun. It would feel sort of right. He needs his mind to _shut up_ , he has _Yuuta_ , who never goes antiquing with him or calls him by his first name or acts like holding his hand on the subway is something he actually wants to do or tries to set fire to his nicest shirts for being tacky. Yuuta, who, he reminds himself, would be _heartbroken_. 

 

Maybe.

 

Ugh, this is awful.

 

Fuji's tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip, a stupid, openly nervous habit that he wants to get rid of in hopes of saving money on lip balm. "Just because you're a piece of shit and I'm a piece of shit doesn't mean that's a good thing," he settles upon, not wanting to talk about this, and yet here they are, _talking_ about it. It's because Mizuki keeps holding his hand (he grabbed it in the first place and that's the real issue, damn it) and it feels shockingly good there. "And then there's Yuuta." 

 

“There is,” Mizuki agrees, and his other hand comes up to slowly twirl a strand of hair. “Which is why this stops when we get off the train, hmm?” Because Yuuta doesn’t deserve _this_. 

 

Which makes Mizuki wonder very strongly why he wants it so badly. It isn’t the sex; he has that, and plenty, and it _suits_ him with Yuuta. It isn’t that Fuji is lovely--there are others that are much prettier that he wants less. “This is awfully confusing,” he mutters, and even now, doesn’t let go of Fuji’s hand. “You can go back to finding me intolerable at any point.”

 

"I'm trying very hard," Fuji says tiredly. "If you keep doing that thing with your hair, it might make it easier." 

 

It doesn't, not really, and it's an act of God to make him untangle their fingers when they finally reach their stop. There are a very large number of people toting soaking wet umbrellas, and that makes Fuji nervous for another reason entirely. " _Please_ don't tell me we just went through that little fiasco only to be rained out," he mutters, even as he tries to remember what he used to do with his hand before he started holding Mizuki's. _Dumb._  

 

“Noooo,” Mizuki wails quietly, and fumbles in his bag for an umbrella, producing and opening it. “It’s not an open-air market, is it? Ugh, fuck this _weather_ , let’s go anyway and see if it’s open.” He only hesitates for a moment before putting an arm around Fuji’s shoulders and tugging him close under the umbrella. “Lead the way.”

 

Mizuki confirmed for taller now, and broader, and it's even more obvious when Fuji's squished up closer like this. Mizuki also confirmed for smelling good, not like Yuuta's cheap cologne (have better _taste_ , for god's sake) or like sweaty, gross boy or like overly perfumed girl. "This is kind of like handholding," he quietly warns, but he grabs a handful of Mizuki's shirt, anyway, and tugs him in the right direction. "And it's probably going to be closed, and this is all really stupid." 

 

“I didn’t come to Tokyo to sit around in the heat while Yuuta sleeps,” Mizuki says, determined, and follows Fuji’s lead--even if he does swallow hard when Fuji grabs his shirt, even if his pulse skips a little when he squeezes Fuji’s shoulder.

 

When they’ve been walking for about five minutes, the sky opens, and Mizuki briefly worries about drowning. The umbrella is wrenched from his hand by a wind that sends a stop sign down the street, and he abandons all hope of the antiques market. “Cover!” he calls instead, and grabs Fuji, running for the closest awning, wrenching open the door and gasping for breath when they’re safely inside whatever building. “Of course, I picked _today_ not to bring my coat,” he grumbles, straightening up and looking around. “You okay, Shuu-kun?”

 

Fuji, somewhat windswept and damp, shakes off like a very ruffled, aggravated cat. "Of all the days," he huffs, stomping over and digging out his shirt from Mizuki's bag to wipe his face with it. "Ahhh, _why_ , this isn't fair," he laments, passing the shirt over to let Mizuki dry off with it as well. "All of that for nothing. Even if it stops raining, they're going to pack up everything, I just know it." 

 

“This is a nightmare. A tragedy.” Mizuki rubs the shirt over his face, content to let everything else drip on the floor the way his sadness demands. “What if everything they had out there got ruined? Why is the rain _terrible_?”

 

“Excuse me,” a nervous man in a uniform asks, bowing deeply, “Do you have tickets? Only ticketholders are allowed here, please.”

 

Mizuki glares. “Tickets? For--” He looks up, sees the poster, and his heart melts slightly. “Oh...oh no, I’m so sure you won’t enjoy this,” he breathes, grabbing at Fuji’s arm, “but Shuu-kun, I’m begging you to indulge me.”

 

"Huh?" Fuji blinks, shaken out of his deep, deep urge to sulk and grumble about antiques by the fact that Mizuki is touching him again oh no that really needs to stop immediately _get it together, body and brain._ "What am I indulging, exactly…ah."

 

Audrey Hepburn, as per usual. " _My Fair Lady_ , huh," Fuji sighs, and he's already tugging his bag off of Mizuki's shoulder, because he's done, and this has already been a shit day, why not make it something _weird_. "Fine, whatever, let's get tickets. Why wouldn't I enjoy this, exactly?"

 

“No one likes the things I like,” Mizuki says, which is just _obvious_. “I don’t expect anyone to, but ah, it’s a _masterpiece_ , at least try to have fun. Ah, I’m going to be humming the songs all day...it isn’t the dubbed version, is it? Bad enough to have Marnie Nixon...”

 

"Hajime," Fuji says, patiently for once, "do you know how many musicals I have dragged Yuuta to in my lifetime with him kicking and screaming? This will be a delight." 

 

There are worse things than buying a couple of cheap tickets to a musical screening in order to escape a horrible storm, after all. Fuji grabs him by the shirt again-- _not_ the hand--to tug him along. "Come on, stop fawning over the poster." 

 

“But she’s _breathtaking_ ,” Mizuki sighs, but lets himself be tugged. Somewhere in his Audrey-induced stupor, he’d thought he’d heard something about Fuji actually _appreciating_ this kind of thing, and oh, dear, he doesn’t need that right now. He settles in, avoiding the six to ten others in the theatre, and tries to make sure he and Fuji aren’t touching _too_ much.

 

That’s when another nervous man in a uniform (the same one? He doesn’t _think_ so) comes out to announce, “Honored guests, we are so sorry. One of our technicians has misplaced the film with subtitles. The following version is _English only_. If you want a refund, please see the front desk.”

 

Mizuki sits down harder, if that’s possible, and when the tall people two rows in front of them leave, his eyes light up. “Shuu-kun,” he whispers, “at this rate, it’ll be just the two of us. Ah, wouldn’t it be loverly?”

 

"I'm going to request that they start doing hand checks," Fuji deadpans in response, only half-joking, because his heart is already thudding stupidly, pathetically hard at all of this and that's no good at all. 

 

This, he sadly confirms to himself, is a date. The antiques market would have been an outing. This…no, this is, indeed, a date. 

 

Mizuki can’t quite remember the last time he’s had this much fun, even before the lights go out and the lion roars its approval of MGM. Before long, Eliza Doolitle is smudged and waifish on the big screen, and Mizuki is endeavoring not to sing along.

 

At some point in Act Two, his head comes to rest on Fuji’s shoulders. He isn’t sleepy, couldn’t sleep if he tried, but there, it just seems...right. Damn. There’s nothing but _enjoyment_ in Fuji’s face, and he shouldn’t be thinking of how hard it had been to get Yuuta to watch just _ten minutes_ of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” a few months earlier, what a disaster.

 

It's definitely just the two of them in here now, and with Mizuki leaning on him like this, Fuji knows it's time to be concerned anew. 

 

 _Just focus on the movie._ Well, that would be great, except that musicals are his favorite, and there's obviously some god out there playing a trick on him to put him in this situation and make him enjoy it as much as possible _with Mizuki_. No, he's not mouthing the words. All right, yes he is, but Mizuki is, too, so they're _both_ stupid about this. 

 

"Peripherally," Fuji says underneath his breath at some point, "I feel as though I was aware that you liked things like this. But if I had _really_ known, I would have shown you my _collection._ "

 

“If you tell me you have _Funny Face_ in the original English,” Mizuki murmurs back, leaning closer to make sure he’s heard above the Horse Race, “we’re going to have a problem. I’ve looked for it for _years_.” He’s somewhat aware that he’s gripping Fuji’s arm. Fuck this, it’s a problem, they both know it’s a problem, it’s time to resign themselves to the fact that they’re on a date.

 

Or not, because that means dealing with it later, dealing with Yuuta and promises and....

 

 _But Shuusuke knows all the words_ , he thinks helplessly, charmed beyond all previous understanding.

 

 _This is so unfortunate. I make such an adorable boy/girlfriend when I want to, and now would be the perfect time to demonstrate it, but it's with_ this _guy and Yuuta is going to kill me._  

 

There's nothing that can account for reflexes, however.

 

"Hajime," Fuji solemnly says, switching their grip to grab at Mizuki's hand again and squeeze, "you have no idea. I'll have to bring some of it back to school--we can have weekend viewing parties. No one else is invited."

 

_We are sooo fucked._

 

Mizuki gulps, and lets out a noise that’s closer to a whimper than an actual word. He clears his throat, and tries again, while all he can think is _he’s touching me, he’s holding my hand and talking about_ Funny Face _, he called me....oh shit._

 

“Shit,” he breathes aloud, and gives a weak little smile, curling his hand around Fuji’s. Onscreen, Eliza shouts, _“Move your bloomin’ arse!”_

 

_I’m thinking about it, Eliza._

 

Fuji firmly sets up a rule. That rule is _don't look at Mizuki Hajime or you'll die_ , and it works--mostly. 

 

Holding Mizuki's hand is one thing. He's clung to Eiji's hand a dozen times and it hasn't meant anything. This doesn't need to be any different, as far as Fuji is concerned. 

 

_Except it's very different, and you know that._

 

When the credits roll, it's almost a relief. Fuji sags back down into his seat, staring briefly up at the theatre's old ceilings, and chews on his lower lip. "I bet it's still raining," he says. "I guess heading home is the best choice." No, he's not going to start singing things that are now stuck in his head.

 

Mizuki slumps a little in his seat at that idea, ticking off the names he knows so well--makeup supervisor, Gordon Bau, what an inspiration--with half his mind. “Yeah. I suppose even Yuuta will be up by now.”

 

Up, and wondering where his boyfriend is, and the truth is, said boyfriend is on a date with his brother and actually feeling pretty good about the whole thing. “As long as we don’t talk about it after this,” he says carefully, still not looking at Fuji, “it doesn’t have to...be anything. Just a story we don’t tell.”

 

"Right." Except that's easier said than done, and Fuji's still holding Mizuki's hand like an idiot. Fantastic. Languidly, Fuji thinks of solutions, not more paths towards self-destruction. Maybe he can hook up with Taka-san tonight. That seems…maybe fun. 

 

When his mind starts idly shifting towards _I wonder how Hajime would fuck me, though_ , that's when Fuji stamps down on his thoughts like he's putting out a fire. "Let's just--let's go," he says, tugging Mizuki up without looking at him. 

 

Having a crush--an aching, horny, pathetic crush--on Fuji Shuusuke had been a lot _easier_ when it had been drastically one-sided, Mizuki realizes in dismay, letting himself be tugged around like a puppet without strings. Knowing that there was no chance, he’d resigned himself--it isn’t like he’s had no experience with fruitless crushes, after all. But this...

 

He swallows hard, following like a puppy, carrying their bags and hoping against hope for a rain so bad it keeps them here for another showing. Luck, however, is only on their side when it’s _hilarious_ , he thinks sourly. “That’s barely a drizzle. We can make it through that.” And they’ll leave this, whatever it is, back here, and ignore the fact that Fuji has a _collection_ of movies he’s never found anyone else to share them with, that Mizuki has only been able to watch blurry subtitled clips of on YouTube, and the way Fuji’s hand feels in his. Because this is stupid.

 

It’s probably bad that the idea of going back to see Yuuta doesn’t exactly make him any happier. Yuuta will probably be in a bad mood, made worse by the heat and the fact that he won’t be playing tennis, and he’ll probably sulk all day. Yet somehow, they’re going back to that instead of seeing whether there’s another showing. Mizuki is fairly certain they both deserve sainthood for that.

 

 _I have better taste than this_ , Fuji stubbornly thinks to himself. It's better to reconcile all of this as being something akin to stupidity and hormones. Stockholm Syndrome again, yes, that, it's definitely that. 

 

Except Mizuki likes the same movies, and speaks English with him, and understands how stressful a strange, messed up family can be. He's also, unfortunately, _attractive_ now. Taller, broader, and his hair could use a cut but _no, don't do that, let it grow out, you could have a ponytail._  

 

When was the last time he actually _wanted_ to roll around with someone? And it would be fun, too, because Mizuki--

 

_No, shut up, brain._

 

He's silent for most of the train ride home, until the last stop rolls around and he quietly says, "We should have an excuse for being gone so long. Telling him we saw a movie really does sound like a date." 

 

Mizuki nods, worrying at his bottom lip and thinking. Then, his eyes light up. “We need two band-aids,” he says firmly, and pulls them out of his very well-stocked bag. “Give me your arm. We’ll say we went to give blood. He’d never come in a million years.”

 

"God, you're not _wrong_ ," Fuji breathes, sagging out of sheer relief before offering up his arm. "And I did used to have something of a thing for them sticking me with a needle, back in Chiba."

 

“I still have my donor card, too.” Mizuki lays the bandage over Fuji’s skin, limiting himself strictly to two (ONLY TWO) strokes of his fingers that aren’t entirely necessary to seal down the bandage before doing his own. “Chances are, he’ll see the bandages and refuse to ask anything else. He doesn’t even like _hearing_ about needles.”

 

"He'd never be able to be a yakuza," Fuji muses, idly thumbing over the bandage before he pulls his arm away. There. He's _not_ holding Mizuki's hand anymore, he can do this. "Make sure you give me my bag back, too," he sighs, swaying to his feet when the train stops. "Even though it's nice having a pack mule again."  

 

“Your shoulders are too narrow to wear it like that,” Mizuki says, frowning, and lengthens the strap, sliding it over Fuji’s head instead. “That way emphasizes your better features.” Now he looks artlessly pretty, a far better step, and Mizuki tries not to sigh. “Yuuta thinks he’s much cooler than he is. Why can’t he call either of us by our names?”

 

"I don't know…" _But you can stop being cool,_ Fuji somewhat dreamily thinks, and then shakes it off with a shudder that goes straight down his spine. Reel it in, reel it in. Dear _god_ , reel it in. "He calls me Shuusuke sometimes, even though he knows that it makes me want to grind his face into a wall. It's just when he's trying to really get my attention, I think."

 

“Your parents gave you such a manly name.” Misuki smiles to himself, and tries, he _tries_ to remember how insufferable Fuji is, with marginal success, though it sort of just makes him want to smile more. Gross. Ugh, this was so much easier when Fuji _hated_ him. What had he done that was finally successful? How to reverse success? “They should have planned for you to turn out like your father, don’t you think? Neither of your parents are noticeably masculine, and, well, then there’s Yuuta.” _Who_ is _my type, and that’s why I should not be nearly as attracted to you as I am._

 

"Yuuta looks like every man on my mother's side of the family," Fuji dismisses. "And he _likes_ his name. Wants to hear it 24/7, in fact." The platform is slick from rain, and Fuji glares at it. _Ruining our plans, making me sit and watch a musical instead of antiquing for maximum bonding sessions, how dare you._ "My dad at least calls me Shuu, and I think he wanted to leave it at that, but _Mom_ wanted something super manly. Gross." 

 

“Ah, it’s the opposite for me.” Mizuki hesitates, but ah, they’re sharing. “My father was going to call me Kichiro, but my mother and sisters overruled him. They...do that a lot.”

 

"That does explain the hiragana. Mm, we should trade names." 

 

“Or I could just call you Fujiko.” Mizuki brushes an errant strand of hair behind his ear, and tries not to like that too much. “It suits you. Elegant.”

 

 _No no no no no my one weakness!!!_ "I…heh. Wouldn't it be a bit obvious, if you started calling me that?" It takes effort to dismiss the idea, and Fuji bats Mizuki's hand away with less violence behind the moment than he wants by far.

 

“I can just do it...in the dorm room,” Mizuki suggests, cheerfully playing with fire and already feeling it start to singe his fingertips. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking determinedly down at the ground. “If you don’t mind it.”

 

 _Well, I'm fucked._ "It's my favorite nickname," Fuji says, faux-cheerful, "and you aren't allowed to abuse it."

 

“Ah. Well, that’s lucky, then.” Mizuki shrugs, and heads into the train station. “I, unfortunately, don’t have a preferred name. Well, perhaps _Coach_ , but not in a casual sense.” Thinking of Fuji as _Fujiko_ is unfortunate. Whoops.

 

"Mmn? So you've never had Yuuta call you that in bed?" These are questions that should not be asked right now, definitely. 

 

“What a question.” Mizuki shakes out his own hair, reflecting dismally that it’s almost long enough to tie back. “He said it was weird. As if _I’m_ the one making weird requests in bed. _Honestly_.”

 

"Maybe he just doesn't know what a good time in bed really is," Fuji sighs, leading the way out of the station. "This might come as a surprise to you, given your relative inexperience, but boys are _stupid_." 

 

“And yet, you don’t seem to find girls any more palatable,” Mizuki notes, following at Fuji’s heels. “For all their allure, I’m not sure I would, either. My standards for my hypothetical woman are rather impossibly high, unfortunately.” _You fit all of them, how horrible._

 

"Mm, girls are stupid, too. At least they usually smell nice, though. That's my criteria," Fuji hums. "Especially for boys. Smell nice, tall, shoulders, good hair, good fingers. Tennis is a plus. Brain is a bigger plus. If I'm lucky, glasses, and can maybe pick me up. Your criteria seems to be 'will sleep with me, maybe.'" Good, he's back to insults. That's a hell of a lot easier. 

 

Mizuki carefully is _not_ checking off his own attributes against Fuji’s criteria, given how few of them he fits. Ah, well, there are always exceptions. “For me...” He frowns, thinking. “They change. Talent is the biggest. Elegance, determination, wit, strength, appreciation of the finer things, a willingness to learn...” He shrugs. “The list is infinite, really. You’re not wrong when you say I’ll compromise. There are worse things than not having every criteria fulfilled. Loneliness is worse.” _It’s not like I’ll find Holly Golightly that easily._

 

 _Stop being sort of pathetically charming, I was enjoying insulting you._ There's also the quip of _and where does Yuuta fit in, exactly?_ that wants to escape, but that's more of an insult to his little brother, because Mizuki's taste sounds rather good, in theory. What a shame. "Don't tell Yuuta about your specifications," Fuji says instead. "It's not going to end well." 

 

“Few of our conversations do, these days,” Mizuki admits, with a little shrug. “Distance is difficult. I’m not exactly above telling him to suck it up and deal with it, after all I’ve put up with from him. At least I’m vague about the things I want, when he’s disconcertingly specific.”

 

"…I'm sorry he's such a pissbaby." Now or never to fucking say it, Fuji supposes, and yes, that's a _technical_ term. "Because he is. He really is. He's dreadful sometimes." It's actually something of a load off to say it out loud.

 

Mizuki tries not to giggle, and fails horribly and immediately. “He’s...ah. The problem with Yuuta,” he tries to explain, “is that all he knows is what he _doesn’t_ want to be. So he’s sort of an amalgamation of everything else, at the moment, plus sweets.”

 

"He just needs to go down to Ni-choume and get it all out of his system," Fuji mutters, pausing at a crosswalk. " _Honestly_. He's also far too concerned about what Dad thinks on any given day, and what he fails to understand is that unfortunately, Dad doesn't _care_ what he does." 

 

“I’m not saying he hasn’t been dealt a raw hand,” Mizuki adds, narrowly avoiding a bicyclist who refuses to play by society’s rules. “But there are ways of dealing with that that are _more_ destructive, and ways that are _less_ destructive.” He pauses, and frowns. “Are you saying I’m just not doing him hard enough?”

 

"It has nothing to do with you, at the end of the day." Fuji looks up at him, shrugging. "Yuuta needs to get over it and realize that he's at least 105% gay. I honestly think he's still stuck on that and how guilty it makes him feel, for some reason." 

 

“It’s the only thing he thought he’d be able to beat you at,” Mizuki says wearily. “I’m so sure that he looked at you and decided that at least he could be the _masculine_ one. Very unfortunate for him, at the end of the day. I can’t think of a universe in which he’d get a girl pregnant and you wouldn’t, but hey, that’s hope for you.”

 

At that, Fuji does have to laugh. "You're not wrong. I can't imagine him _ever_ even being able to get it up around a girl." The light changes, and it's reflex that makes him grab for Mizuki's hand to pull him along after him, only to belatedly realize it and…ah, awkward. "If you wear paisley for the rest of the time that you're here, maybe I'll remember how abhorrent you are."

 

Mizuki _does_ wish it didn’t feel so natural to let his fingers curl around Fuji’s. Nothing about this is good, except the way it feels, and that’s just...far better than good, unfortunately. “I’ll wear all the paisley that I have,” he promises. “When I see how little you appreciate proper fashion, I’m sure I’ll be deterred.”

 

"Right. It's a plan." 

 

Fuji does, at least, have enough wits about him to release Mizuki's hand a solid block before they show back up at his house. "We're home," he announces to what seems to still be a very empty house. His mother still must be asleep (go figure), and Yuuta--well, it's only a matter of time.

 

“Hey, there you are!” The voice could be _less_ accusatory and suspicious, but Mizuki supposes that under the circumstances, it isn’t too bad. Yuuta comes out of the hallway, arms folded in front of him, dressed in his tennis gear. “Where were you guys?”

 

Mizuki sighs, and thumps Fuji in the shoulder, prominently displaying his band-aid in the process. “I _told_ you, Shuu-kun, we should have invited him. There’s no way he’s still afraid of needles after all this time.”

 

Yuuta stares at the two of them, obviously confused. “Huh? Needles? Were you doing drugs or something?”

 

"Please, Yuuta, you know I only do that in the privacy of Yumiko's bedroom," Fuji sighs, ducking out from underneath Mizuki's touch to drift over to his brother. "No, we were being _good_ citizens and giving blood. Publicity stunts are very effective when you have rare blood types, who knew?" 

 

The tension goes out of Yuuta’s shoulders, and Mizuki tries not to breath deeper in relief. “Oh. God, you’re dumb, you should have just told me, I’m not scared of needles.” 

 

Mizuki pats his shoulder condescendingly. “Of course not, Yuuta-kun. Next time we’ll invite you.”

 

“Yeah. Good. I’ll totally come.” He totally won’t. “So, uh, are we gonna go practice today? It’s supposed to be the lowest temperature today of the whole week.”

 

Mizuki sadly shoulders his bag again. “Very well, let’s go. Shuu-kun, do you mind staying behind? Secret tennis advice, you know.”

 

“He’s not coming,” Yuuta says, though he shoots a somewhat guilty look at his brother when he does. “He’s got play stuff, right?”

 

"Yes, but you're going to cook out there," Fuji worriedly sighs, and grabs Yuuta's arm for a split second. "Wait five seconds, because I don't want phone calls about heat stroke." 

 

 _If Yumiko were here,_ Fuji irritably thinks as he darts to the kitchen, and hauls a sizable cooler out of the pantry, _she would back me up, and get them both to stay inside and not die._ "Yuuta, come in here and carry this thing," he calls out into the hallway as he dumps out the freezer's ice into it and around a dozen bottles of water. "It's your responsibility to make sure both you and your piece of shit coach are hydrated." 

 

“Excellent, providing ice water to a player who might experience heat stroke. Any other tips for sending your little brother into a state of shock?” Mizuki asks sardonically, passing Yuuta his bag as a matter of practice. 

 

“Aniki, I can’t drink _that_ much water.”

 

"It's going to melt in this heat, dumbass," Fuji snaps over his shoulder to Mizuki. "It's like you've never practiced in the middle of Tokyo in summer. Oh, wait, of course you didn't, because St. Rudolph was done after the first spring meets. Anyway!" he cheerfully says, smiling at Yuuta. "Take this, and _don't die._ "

 

Practicing in this heat is a fool’s errand, and Mizuki feels like every kind of fool. At least he can do most of his training from the meager shade of a tree, fanning himself desperately with the piece of paper he’d written Yuuta’s training menu on. “Honestly, Yuuta-kun,” he whines, “you can’t expect me to sit in this heat all day. I’ll die.”

 

Yuuta’s face is dark red, sweat dripping off his body, and honestly, Mizuki could find that determination _less_ attractive. “I’ve got to get better before the tournament,” he insists. Mizuki sighs, and puts him through another set of exercises.

 

A quick check on his phone’s wi-fi, however, and he’s done. “Pack it in,” he announces after nearly two hours, when Yuuta has drunk three bottles of water and dumped two over his head. “They’ve postponed the tournament on account of heat, we’re done here.”

 

“But--postponed?” Yuuta looks crestfallen. “But you’re going to be here, I want to win for _you_.”

 

“Win for yourself, idiot.” Mizuki’s voice is fond nonetheless, and he pulls out his pocket square, dabbing at Yuuta’s forehead in a useless gesture. “You have a lot to be proud of. Don’t force yourself to the point of exhaustion.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you’re making me tired. Carry my things home, I’m wilting.”

 

“Mizuki-san...”

 

Ah, but that name suddenly sets Mizuki’s teeth on edge, and he walks off the court, letting Yuuta catch up. The irony, of course, is that it’s not exactly too hot for antiquing...or for sitting in a dark, cool movie theater, resting his head on someone’s knee, warm and tender as he can be, who takes good care of me, ah, wouldn’t it be loverly?

 

“Mizuki-san, you’re humming.”

 

“Good! Enjoy it!”

 

It's worse that night, predictably. 

 

Their mother rolls herself out of bed, cheerful and revived. That's one good thing, at least, even though she does call her eldest son 'Yumiko' at least three times. 

 

"Mom," Fuji patiently says as he sits at the kitchen table, flipping through his script as she cleans for no reason, "I'm not even as tall as Neesan."

 

"But you look so much like her! Like your father…Ahh, I hope he comes home soon…" 

 

Fuji tunes her out, and tries not to hum things that aren't pertinent to his actual damned job. 

 

More annoying is the long stare down he's having with his phone. There's a text message in his drafts, meant for Taka-san. He should send it. Maybe he'll get lucky. For the first time in _ages_ , he's actually jittery and on edge and that vaguely leads to horny. Fine. _Fine_ , he'll accept that hormones are a thing, and he'll like it if he finds someone to actually vent them on. 

 

Fuji opts out of dinner, lurks in the recesses of his bedroom, and sends that text message far too late for anything to come of it. Curling up in bed and staring at his nightstand and vaguely petting the single drawer in it isn't a good past time either, though. 

 

**To: Fuji**

**From: Taka**

**Subject: Re: Tonight?**

**I’m always here if you need me.**

 

Taka looks over the message three times before he shrugs and sends it. The worst that can happen is that he’d misunderstood, and Fuji will come vent to him about something in his life, and Taka can think of twenty worse things he could be doing with his night (even if it is nearly 2am).

 

_No, don't respond!_

 

Fuji shoves his face down into a pillow, thinks about sleep, thinks about maybe sneaking right the fuck out and climbing through Taka's window and--

 

That should be doing more for him. 

 

**To: Taka-san**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Re: Tonight?**

**Yeah…I know. Thank you, Taka-san. My fault, but I think it's too late after all.**

 

**To: Fuji**

**From: Taka**

**Subject: Re: Tonight?**

**Ok. Take care of yourself.**

 

The soft knock of knuckles against Fuji’s door is so quiet it could be mistaken for the brush of a cat against the wood, if they’d had a cat. It’s the knock of someone who either doesn’t want to wake up the room’s inhabitants, or isn’t sure if he wants to be heard.

 

Nope, no, he did _not_ perk up at that sound. He did _not_. 

 

Except he did, and that's why Fuji slides out of the bed, pads over to the door, and cracks it open with narrowed eyes, undone hair, and a long, rumpled t-shirt. Ah, yes, so sexy. He thinks he resembles the _Ring's_ Sadako, truthfully, especially in this light. "Can't stand the smell of Yuuta's cologne?" he quietly deadpans. 

 

Mizuki’s chest shouldn’t feel tighter at the sight of Fuji looking disheveled and sleepy. Ah, well, life’s a bitch. “You’re not wrong,” he admits, “but I just...couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to disturb him.” Asking if he can come in is a bad plan. That’s why he was just coming over to _reassure_ himself that Fuji was asleep, and he should just nap on the couch or something, and is definitely not going to... “Can I come in?”

 

Fuji steps away from the door, leaving it open in nonverbal permission. "You can finally bask in the glory that is my fully realized Tezuka wall," he wistfully says, flopping down onto the foot of his bed. "Bringing the full thing to school would be a fool's errand, after all…"

 

“Jesus Christ,” is the prompt response. Mizuki looks up, and blinks. “Can I look fully at it, or does that induce madness in the test rodents?”

 

Fuji blinks up at him. "I dunno, I've never tried. Look, there's a prime shot, I only have two pictures _ever_ with him minus glasses." 

 

“Shuu-kun,” Mizuki asks, frowning slightly, “I mean this out of genuine curiosity, because you’re an excellent photographer. Why are all of these terrible?”

 

"You know, he's just so _elusive._ "

 

“Sure, sure.” Mizuki tilts his head, examining what looks like a series of shots of the Seigaku uniform and someone’s hip from behind. “How sure are you that all of these are even him?”

 

"Very." Fuji flops backwards, smoothing his shirt down over his thighs as he does. "I can always tell him apart."

 

There’s a strangled groan from Mizuki at that sight--which really shouldn’t be as erotic as it is--and he leans back against a wall free of photographs. “Ah. The benefits of obsession, or is it just heightened awareness? Yuuta told me that this wall in particular is your preferred location for new conquests, is that right?”

 

"Maybe both, I dunno." Fuji's eyes lid, and he lifts a hand in a lazily dismissive wave. "And yeah, that's my preferred location because I can see it nicely from my bed. Assuming I'm home, of course. There's not much of a point now." _Don't stand there, it gives me ideas._  

 

“You,” Mizuki says, more gently than he’d intended, “are too young and talented to have given up so thoroughly.” 

 

He hears the other layers in his voice, and wants to punch a wall. If Fuji can hear in his voice the same thing he hears in his own--well. That’s embarrassing, if nothing else. “They indefinitely postponed the tournament,” he says instead, looking up. “Two people died today from the heat.”

 

Fuji's lips purse, but he doesn't comment. It's not worth it to get into that argument. It's better to stare up at the ceiling and contemplate _why_ he hadn't left when Taka-san and made that offer. It would have been better than this, right? 

 

_Nope!_

 

"I'm sure Yuuta was upset." Fuji pauses, lips parted, and he sighs before he pats at a spot on the side of the bed. "Sit down, you're making my legs hurt." 

 

“In _what_ way am I making your legs hurt?” Mizuki demands, but sits, rubbing at his knees with a grimace. “Speaking of which, I’ve been having the worst joint pains over the last couple of months. I thought it was from effort, but I haven’t been playing tennis _that_ much.”

 

"You've been getting taller, obviously." Fuji rolls over onto his side, his head propped in one hand. "Growing pains, how unlucky. I bet you wanted to stay small and cute forever, huh?" 

 

Mizuki hesitates for a moment, then decides to give Fuji the serious answer he hadn’t been looking for. “I’ve never liked the way big men throw their weight around,” he says honestly. “I’ve always preferred being the David to the Goliath, as dramatic as that may sound.”

 

Fuji's head tilts contemplatively, and his hair falls into his face as a result. "Sounds about right. But, honestly, it's not as if you're going to be anyone's Goliath. You're probably just going to end up tall and leggy with nice shoulders." He could keep going. It's better if he doesn't. "Just be artistically tall and get rid of the paisley in order to be an attractive theatre nerd, it'll suit you better and you'll get laid more."

 

“You seem to frequently assume that my goal in life is to sleep with as many people as possible,” Mizuki notes, raising one eyebrow as he tucks his legs up onto the bed. “Despite the fact that you must be entirely aware by now that I’m actually fairly good at this whole dating-someone thing.”

 

" _You're_ the one reminding me about how hard your dick is all the time." _Dooon't look at it. Don't look at it. Don't look at it. Don't think about giving him a blow job. Just don't do it, Shuu, doooon't do it._ "Anyway, I was giving you a compliment, and you barely even noticed it. Rude."

 

“I noticed it.” Mizuki shifts slightly, turning to face Fuji and being entirely aware that this is a Bad Idea. “But if I don’t notice it, I don’t fall a little bit more in love with you, and this is a lot easier to bear.” This is stupid. He shouldn’t have come here tonight, shouldn’t have come to this house in the first place.

 

This current arrangement makes him basically eye level with Mizuki's cock, in the perfect position to hear everything that he's saying, and that's not good at _all_. 

 

Fuji sits up as quickly as he can without seeming hurried, and rakes his hair back from his face with a breathless laugh. "You're really driving me insane," he bluntly says, leaning away to let his back thump against the wall his bed sits against. "We should talk about something else. You got to see our mom again tonight, didn't you? Better, or worse than your own?" 

 

That kills the mood faster than anything, which is probably a good thing. “More medicated,” Mizuki settles on, leaning back against the wall and letting his feet dangle over the side of the bed. “Which I suppose I’m going to call _better_. At least she isn’t throwing things, does she do that? I used to sleep in the car on those nights.”

 

"She's never done anything like that." Fuji folds up one of his knees to his chest, resting his chin upon it. "She's a lot better, usually, when Dad is home…but with how much he works, that's pretty rare these days. Are your sisters like your mom at all?"

 

“One is. I’m sure that’s a fantastic percentage, but living with them...” Things he doesn’t talk about, which are now, for some reason, being talked about. Mizuki lays back against the wall, blinking a few times at the memories. “Then one of my sisters is a bookworm--not the sweet withdrawn kind, the snobbish kind that will destroy anyone who comes near her books. The other two only talk about parties and boyfriends, both of which they seem to have an unlimited supply of.” Mizuki’s smile is wan. “It probably says something that I get along best with my mother out of everyone.”

 

Fuji's head thunks lightly back against the wall. "Just means you're looking for a semblance of sanity. Been there, done that. Yumiko and I are a lot closer than Yuuta and I are, I think. She's easy to talk to, even if she's a little bit…out of it, sometimes. I think our whole family got at least one copy of the crazy gene; it just shows up in different ways."

 

“To be fair,” Mizuki allows, his fingers toying with a ragged end of a designer blanket, “I don’t exactly enjoy spending time with most people. I find regular people to be rather...” He thinks, then decides, “No, _boring_ is definitely the word I was looking for.”

 

"Most people are boring." Fuji bats his eyelashes at him. "Which is why you think I'm _so_ much fun, of course, and to be fair, I am. On that same note, does Yuuta still ask you for really weird things in bed?" 

 

Mizuki’s head thunks back against the wall with an audible _thud_. “If you’re asking whether he still asks me to punish him like the disgusting creature he is--his words, not mine--then the answer is an unfortunate yes. I _did_ manage to get it through his skull that we’re _not_ doing that every time, as I still need to be able to maintain an erection occasionally, but...” He shrugs helplessly. “The boy has tastes. God knows where they came from, but we all know I’m not the man who can give him what he wants.”

 

It's hard not to laugh, so Fuji doesn't really try not to. "That _does_ sound awful. I mean, different strokes for different folks, but…every single time? _Really?_ Lame, Yuuta. If you're going to do a role-play in bed, at least make it interesting…and have better cologne while you're at it. Sorry, I'm stuck on that, it just seeps into the _floorboards_." 

 

“Worse,” Mizuki adds, “it seeps into his _skin_. Not to overshare, but he tastes like the foul stuff, even after a shower. His shoulders, his neck--I’ve had to resort to some truly creative things, and not in a way that I think is _entertaining_. But honestly, the cologne is so secondary an issue to the...other.” He worries at his lip for a moment, and confesses, “I think if I were better at it, he’d...he’d get better. He wouldn’t feel like he needs it all the time, at least.”

 

"It's not like he can't afford Thierry Mugler instead, dear god." Fuji snorts, shutting his eyes. "Anyway, I don't think preferences in bed really work like that. He just needs to go down to Shinjuku and have a good time--within reason, but in the meantime…seriously, do you ever _really_ get off?" 

 

Mizuki lets a sound that’s something of an indeterminate noise of assent. “I...yeah. Yes. I do.” It’s rarely the result of anything in particular that Yuuta _does_ , of course, and is usually the result of tiring Yuuta out from his demands and just finishing when he’s sort of sleepy and floppy and lets Mizuki do it however he wants, but he _does_ finish.

 

"…That doesn't sound terribly enthusiastic," Fuji can't help but wryly tease. "Is it the _planning_ and the _setup_ , too? Because I hate that more than anything."

 

“Right??” Mizuki slumps over, grabbing Fuji’s wrist. “It’s _weird_ , Shuu-kun! Shouldn’t--I don’t know if this is _old-fashioned_ or naive of me, but shouldn’t the best part of sex be actually...I don’t know, having sex? With someone that wants to have sex with you? When did it get to be such a _production_?”

 

"You're preaching to the choir," Fuji sympathetically says, patting the back of Mizuki's hand lightly. "I've always hated it. It's for that very reason that I can count on one hand the number of times I've gotten off while having sex. Everyone else just has so many _things_ that they want, and I'm just into _doing it_ , thank you very much." 

 

That...is not something Mizuki had expected to hear.

 

“No one takes care of you properly, do they?” he asks, oddly sympathetic. God, what he would give for a creature as lovely, as responsive, as flexible and elegant and _aggressive_ as Fuji Shuusuke splayed out beneath him, grabbing and hungry and--

 

Mizuki is dead sure that all of that shows on his face, and coughs delicately.

 

"Well, considering I _definitely_ can't count the number of people I've been on one hand and when you compare that to number of orgasms, it's kind of pathetic--" Fuji stops, actually glancing up to look at Mizuki's face, and shuts his mouth. "I'm just picky," he finishes lamely. "And hard to please. Most people don't find that appealing." 

 

“No one cares for a good challenge? Their game is weak,” Mizuki declares. Unfortunately, the hormones just won’t _shut up_ tonight, because all he can think about is how many things about Fuji he finds more than a little bit appealing. “You just need to be with someone who...ah.” He breaks off, tucking his hair behind his ears, cheeks burning. “I shouldn’t finish that sentence. I’m dating your brother, I _am_.”

 

"You dating my brother," Fuji repeats for clarity, for _both_ of them, as he stares pointedly up at the ceiling. "And you know what's really awful? I can't stop thinking about giving you a blow job. I don't even _like_ giving blow jobs. I'm really good at them, but I don't like them, and I find that really annoying."

 

“You would be.... _so_ good at it.” This is not a good conversation. Less good is the way Mizuki keeps staring at Fuji’s lips, imagining them stretched wide, his pink tongue darting out occasionally, and ah, no, he needs to put a stop to this right now, because Fuji has the impulse control of a hungry piranha and he’d be an idiot not to realize that. “This will help you control your impulse,” he says lightly, trying to mentally club his erection into submission. “It’s been in your brother’s ass today.”

 

The exhale that Fuji lets out is _intensely_ relieved, and he shuts his eyes, sagging back into the wall. "Yeah. Yeah, that's definitely helping. Thanks." Nothing kills a mood like thinking about Yuuta, honestly. "And thank _god_ , because trying to take care of it myself _never_ turns out well." 

 

“Always glad to help.” Mizuki finally stands, stretching out with a wince for his poor joints. “I’m going to try and sleep again. If I choke on bad cologne and die, remember me with more class than I’ve ever had.”

 

"Yeah. Okay." _Noo, don't go_ , Fuji mentally laments, cracking his eyes open again enough to watch Mizuki slink out. "Say good night to the Tezuka wall, you heathen." 

 

“Goodnight, sweet prince, and may flights of blurry photographers sing thee to thy rest,” Mizuki recites dutifully, sweeping out of the room with a frilly little bow. Once the door is shut, he slumps back against it, eyes closed. Yeah, this is no good. Talking to Yuuta is a thing that needs to happen, stat.

 


	9. Fuji & Mizuki

A few days pass uneventfully…for the most part. 

 

The heat is still unbearable. That's why Fuji rolls out of bed before the sun is barely out in order to do _anything_ , and only one day out of those three is the antiques market actually open. That's enjoyable. That's far _too_ enjoyable, though there's an unspoken pact not to talk about it and to avoid any nightly meetings again. 

 

 _We haven't done anything. There's nothing to be guilty about_.

 

Fuji prides himself on his impulse control for once, though he's reaching a _point_. 

 

When he rolls out of bed on this particular day, however, stumbling downstairs yields no results. Silence. Odd, that, because Mizuki tends to rise even earlier than he does. Fuji hesitates, drops down at the kitchen counter, and makes a point not to think about Mizuki having morning sex with his little brother. _Ugh._  

 

It’s nearly half an hour before Yuuta comes out of his room, red-eyed and somewhat puffy-looking. He stumbles into the kitchen, attempts to force the coffee maker to do something, then gives up and puts water on for tea. “Hey,” he grunts, not sounding entirely happy about being alive, and more than a little like he’s been crying and is trying to hide it by sounding gruff.

 

"…Um," Fuji offers at first, complete with a slow blink when he glances up from his book. "Yuuta, you've been crying." Obviously. And enthusiastically, by the looks of it. "Are you okay? Here, sit down, I'll get the tea going."

 

Yuuta slumps down to the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Mizuki left.” The words don’t sound quite as raw as the time Mizuki had broken up with him. They’re not as desperate, not as helpless, just sort of put out and a little bit sad. “On the first train. Which leaves at like, fuck o’clock.”

 

"Oh." 

 

It feels like he's been hit in the face with a brick. An usual reaction, when it comes to thinking about Mizuki leaving, but there it is all the same. Fuij swallows, and shuts his book before finally rising to go and take care of the tea in question. "So you two had a fight, I'm guessing." 

 

“Yeah. Or we broke up, I’m not sure.” Yuuta rubs his head, making his hair straight on end. “I dunno. Maybe it was just a fight. But it was a pretty _bad_ one. Ugh, I don’t know what to do!”

 

 _Don't look happy, don't look like you want to jump for your cell phone and text Mizuki, don't do it._ "What did you even fight about?" Fuji asks, putting his acting skills to work full force with the sort of vague concern that's in his voice. "From what I saw, you two were doing well enough." 

 

“I dunno. He’s changing a lot, in Kyoto.” The tone of Yuuta’s voice says very clearly that Kyoto is to blame. “It’s like...I dunno. Like all this stuff that never bothered him about me is suddenly suuuuch a big deal. Ugh, guys are so _dumb_!”

 

"If it was the cologne," Fuji offers solemnly as he delivers Yuuta a cup of steaming tea a moment later, "then I'm going to have to tell you something that you might not like hearing." 

 

The look Yuuta gives him is offended, but not so offended he doesn’t take the tea. “You have a problem with my cologne, too?” he demands, and sniffs his shirt. “I think it smells good!”

 

"It's a little…generic," Fuji gently tells him, and drops down onto the couch next to him. "And overpowering. Anyway, we'll come back to that later. If he was nitpicking things about you, then that's usually a pretty typical…well, tactic to put distance between two people."

 

Yuuta looks away, huddled around his tea. “There was other stuff,” he admits. “Like...I dunno, sex stuff. And he suddenly doesn’t like the name I call him after years, what the hell?”

 

 _Ah, it begins._ Fuji thinks he's supposed to feel guilty right about now. He doesn't. God, he's trash, and the worst brother ever. "To be fair, Yuuta…not calling your boyfriend by his given name after so long…"

 

Yuuta’s head snaps up, face full of confusion and almost frantic worry. “Is--did I fuck up? It’s _weird_ , he has a girl’s name, he never minded _before_ when I called him Mizuki-san!”

 

Fuji holds up his hands with a shrug. "I don't know, don't ask me. I'm not exactly a relationship expert here, but I just think it's a little weird. I mean, did you call him that in _bed_ still? Also, real talk, how bad _was_ the sex?"

 

Yuuta lets out his breath in a huff, downing half his tea in one gulp. “I dunno. It was okay. I mean, we were still like...learning, you know? There’s a lot of stuff that we didn’t see, like, eye to eye on.”

 

"After a couple of years, that means…listen, Yuuta, you know I don't like that piece of trash," Fuji tries again, reaching out to give Yuuta's arm a squeeze. "But _completely_ objectively here--if you aren't having fun and it's not working, what's the _point?_ " 

 

Yuuta doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He’s quiet, clutching at his cup of tea and trying not to feel like the bottom has dropped out of one of the more important parts of his life. Finally, he says quietly, “He knows all the bad parts of me, and didn’t even flinch. I’m never gonna find someone else like that, Aniki.”

 

"…You are fourteen," Fuji has to point out. "You're _going_ to find someone else. You just haven't tried, because you've had him around for so long now."

 

Yuuta slumps back, laying on Fuji’s shoulder. “You could be like, way more comforting.”

 

"That's supposed to be comforting!" Ah, no, don't flinch. It's been weird, ever since he was _informed_ about Yuuta's interest-apparent, and, well, he doesn't tend to touch guys that are into him when he doesn't return the interest even vaguely. It's even more difficult when Fuji finds himself more concerned about what Mizuki is doing right now (sitting on a train, obviously), but he manages to get an arm around Yuuta for a solid squeeze all the same. "Why don't you just…try to call him later, after you've cooled down?" he quietly suggests. "And if by the end of summer vacation, you aren't feeling it, it doesn't have to keep being a thing. It's not worth it if you aren't happy."

 

Most people wouldn’t have felt the flinch. Most people aren’t hyper-aware of every little thing that Shuusuke does, have been hyper-aware of it since they could remember feeling just about anything, and haven’t just felt their heart get sore and sad.

 

Yuuta pulls away as fast as he’d laid back, standing and taking his cup to the kitchen, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “Yeah. Good idea.”

 

"Yuuta--" Fuji hesitates, then climbs to his feet, drifting after his brother. "I _swear_ I didn't try to do anything to break you up, if that makes you feel any better? I--maybe this sounds bad in some ways, but I genuinely don't care if you want to date him anymore." 

 

Yuuta stands over the sink, staring at the soggy tea leaves. “I don’t get it. You hate him, you had your ex beat him half to death, and you threatened him to not get back together with me--and now that we’re happy, you try and hang out with him the whole time he’s here? What the hell, Aniki?”

 

Fuji pauses, then frowns, hovering near the kitchen's door. "I didn't hang out with him the whole time, nor did I try to," he defensively says. "You asked me not to, and the only time we did _anything_ together was when we gave blood that one day, and when he wanted to see the antique market. I saved you the trouble of that, thanks very much." 

 

“Fine! Whatever!” Yuuta swallows hard around the lump in his throat, suddenly very much wishing he’d gone to talk to Yumiko instead. “You know why I say that shit, right?”

 

"No, I don't." Fuji's arms fold over his chest, and he's suddenly very sure he doesn't want to be here. "But I'm sure whatever reason you're about to give me isn't very fair." Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out _loud_. There goes the impulse control, apparently, _of all times._  

 

Yuuta rolls his eyes. “You know he’s like, a thousand percent in love with you,” he says bluntly. “He has been since you beat him in tennis, Christ. I have a rule that says how many times a day he’s allowed to talk about you, and I _always_ have to remind him about it, because he _always_ breaks it. It....it really sucks, Aniki.”

 

Fuji immediately laughs at that, already in the process of turning away. "That's great. Even if that's true--why is that _my_ fault?"

 

“I didn’t say it was!” Yuuta’s voice cracks, and he grabs the counter, fingers white-knuckled. When he speaks again, his voice is shaky, a little raw. “I just said it sucks.”

 

A muscle in Fuji's jaw twitches, and he wonders why he's so _annoyed_ all of a sudden. _So get over it and go down to Ni-choume and find someone that's going to focus on you and nothing but you_ is what he wants to say, but can't. This is his fault, in some way. Somehow. Maybe. 

 

"…You know, Saeki's going to Seigaku now." He fishes his phone out of his pocket, searching for the number. "Maybe you two should hang out or something. You need more friends in Tokyo." 

 

Yuuta turns and storms out of the kitchen, going back to his room for a minute to grab his things, then heading out the front door, leaving it to slam shut behind him.

 

**To: Fujiko**

**From: Hajime**

**Subject: ...**

**What did Yuuta tell you? Can I ask? Sorry to go so sudden.**

 

Fuji sighs, flopping back down onto the edge of the kitchen table. 

 

**To: Scumlord**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: Re: …**

**That you fought and he doesn't know if you two broke up. Did you?**

 

He could say half a dozen things more in that text message, but he's not going to. 

 

**To: Fujiko**

**From: Hajime**

**Subject: nice name!!! very cute!!!**

**I thought we did. He told me to leave. Is there...another way to take that?** **く（＾** **_** **・）ゝ** **Is he OK?**

 

**To: Ha** **☆** **ji** **☆** **me**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: better?**

**I think he thinks you're still a thing. Fair warning. He's mad and blaming me even if he says that 'it's not your fault, god!' ┐(´-** **｀** **)┌**

 

**To: Fujiko**

**From: Hajime**

**Subject: you are still a novice at emoji**

**I’ll talk to him....later. More important: have a good summer, sorry I couldn’t stay to say goodbye. ⁝(** **๑** ⑈௰⑈ **)** ◞ **⁝˚º** **꒰꒱**

 

**To: Ha** **☆** **ji** **☆** **me**

**From: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: what the fuck was THAT face**

**Yeah. I'll see you in a couple of weeks.**

 

 _Please be broken up._ Does that thought make him a horrible brother? Even if it does, Fuji's pretty sure he's already at the top of those charts.

 

~

 

The next few weeks is a blur, and that's a godsend, really.

 

Throwing himself into this _stupid_ stage play is a very good distraction. Fuji finds himself becoming very accustomed to the days of rolling out of bed at the crack of dawn, barely pulling his hair back, and getting on the train. It's going to be different when he's in school, obviously. Even if he's one of the younger cast members, _everyone_ has obligations, and they aren't just limited to school. 

 

Still, after the end of summer vacation, he's exhausted, harried, and feeling like he's been hit by a truck. He also feels like his points as a brother have gone down by at least 80%, because Yuuta has barely spoken to him since their argument. 

 

It's why, with vague effort because his thighs burn and his bones ache, Fuji hauls himself and his suitcase back up to his dorm room, unlocks the door, and fully intends on passing right the fuck out. "I'm here," he announces, and then looks.

 

Ah. 

 

Mizuki Hajime, his stupid roommate and the cause of a number of sleepless nights as of late, is at his desk. Even with just summer vacation passing, he's…different. His hair is long enough to be in a ponytail now, his shoulders are definitely broader, and even sitting down, Fuji can tell there's _height_ there that he hasn't noticed properly until now. 

 

Those are also glasses and that's a serious problem and _oh no._  

 

Ah.

 

Mizuki hadn’t expected to see Fuji.

 

No, that’s wrong. He’s known for weeks that Fuji was coming back today. It’s just that there’s really no amount of _ready_ that he could have prepared for, since the real thing is...ah.

 

Fuji looks, maddeningly, the same. He’s petite and gorgeous and shyly deadly, graceful and lithe and _more_ than anyone gives him credit for. Mizuki stands, nearly whacking his knees on his desk for his trouble (not that he can figure out what his body is doing, most of these days). “Fujiko,” he says, because that’s how he’s thought of Fuji the last several weeks, and that’s who Fuji is in his mind now. It comes out low and huskier than he intended, and he swallows around a lump in his throat. “Uh...welcome home.”

 

 _Shit_.

 

"Well, fuck." 

 

Fuji doesn't _mean_ to utter the words, but he does anyway, and he just has to laugh at himself. He shoves his suitcase further into the room (on Mizuki's side, go figure, that's something they would have screamed and yelled about even weeks before) and tugs the door shut behind him. 

 

Seeing Mizuki actually stand up is really all kinds of unfair. He's _so tall_ that Fuji has to tilt his head back a bit, and he swallows. There's no way Mizuki could have shot up that much. He must just…not have noticed, being that close to him basically all the time. 

 

 _Are you and Yuuta even still dating_ is what he wants to ask, but it doesn't happen. Instead, he's suddenly not very tired at all, and that impulse control is gone. It's been gone for about a week now, actually, when he broke down, tried to jerk off, failed, fished for a few razor blades, got angry at himself, and gave up on that, too. Now, though, his impulse control is a dozen times over gone, because Mizuki is looking at him like _that_ (there's not a word for it) and he…

 

…is apparently just going to walk over and grab the front of Mizuki's shirt like some desperate, stupid thing, and yank him down so that they can kiss, once and for all. 

 

There comes a time when a wise man, or even Mizuki Hajime, just has to give the hell up.

 

It comes for Mizuki when he realizes that if this is what kissing feels like, he needs to be doing it all the time--and he’s never done it properly before. That’s enough, it’s _enough_ to make him forget about promises and Yuuta and history, about insults and lonely nights and anything but Fuji Shuusuke’s soft lips and hot mouth against his own. 

 

Mizuki stumbles back, tugging Fuji with him onto someone’s bed, he doesn’t care whose, landing on his ass and pulling Fuji onto his lap, anything so they don’t have to stop kissing. _It’s the glasses, idiot,_ a voice taunts him from within, _you forgot to take off your reading glasses and now he thinks you’re Tezuka, obviously._

 

Mizuki takes off the glasses and buries his hands in Fuji’s hair, cradling his head like the precious thing he is, like something deadly and gorgeous all at once, like something he doesn’t intend to let go.

 

Coherent thought shuts off, and that's a blessedly wonderful thing for sure. 

 

Mizuki's mouth is hot and soft and wet against his own, and Fuji probably kisses him too hard at first, with a breathy, desperate noise leaving his throat. _Don't eat him alive_ , is the brief semblance of a warning that Fuji quickly ignores as soon as it shows up, and the next time he makes a noise, it's something akin to a ruffled, irritated whine when Mizuki pulls away just long enough to push his glasses out of the way. 

 

Whatever. It's remedied quickly enough when he's kissed again, and Fuji manages to be a bit softer this time, even if there's no helping the urge to put his teeth into Mizuki's lower lip and _tug_ before sucking on it. His heart is thudding out of his chest, and he doesn't care. Thinking past that is something for people that are less trash than he is, probably, and Fuji rolls, dragging Mizuki with him, on top of him so that he can be _very_ happily squished underneath that weight, all with his hands dragging up into Mizuki's hair and _tugging_. 

 

It’s Fuji’s bed that they’re in, Mizuki dimly realizes, because the sheets are _fantastic_. It’s a small part of his brain realizing that, when he’s busy feeling the whole length of Fuji’s body, covering him with every motion, shifting and feeling like this is what his whole life has been building to--and maybe it is.

 

“Shuu,” he breathes against Fuji’s lips, and then his hands are wandering, desperate for the feel of Fuji’s body, to know this is _real_. His touch is hungry, touching Fuji’s cheeks, his hands, his neck, everything forbidden for so long, most of all kissing him like his life depends on it, because right now, he’s so sure it _does_. 

 

 _I’m not going to stop_ , he wants to warn, because the dam on this particular river had taken years to build, and just seconds to demolish past any point of repair.

 

Fuji just groans. It's a helpless noise at this point, especially when his hands scrabble down from Mizuki's hair, sliding down his spine, kneading into his back muscles. He squirms enough to get his thighs around Mizuki's waist, squeezing briefly just to make sure he's going to _stay_ there. 

 

His breath is gone by the time he thinks about responding. It's easier said than done, thinking of normal, real things. "If you stop," Fuji dimly thinks to warn, and his voice cracks around the edges, "I'm going to kill you." 

 

Mizuki means to say something cool, he really does. He plans to say something along the lines of _I’m not going to stop until you’re thoroughly satisfied for once_ , or _I’ll stop when you’re in a writhing puddle on the floor_. He thinks those things, but they don’t exactly come out, not when Fuji is grabbing at him like everything he’s ever wanted and he’s never been more focused on anything his entire life.

 

Instead, what comes out is a strangled half-hysterical laugh, and the breathless question, “How the hell could I stop?”

 

His hands are in Fuji’s hair, clutching at his back, squeezing his waist, cupping his cheeks, _everywhere_ , and for a long time, he can’t even think about trying to escalate anything when this right here is so fucking perfect.

 

 _Calming down_ is a good thing, but it's not something that's easy. Also, Fuji's pretty fucking afraid that the moment he does calm down, he's going to burst into tears and be as pathetic as the rest of his family is on any given day--

 

No, no, he's not even going to go there right now. Fuji exhales a ragged breath, shoves his face into Mizuki's neck, and clings to his back. "You can fuck me or whatever you want," he manages with a shaky laugh. "God, I don't care, anything is good, I need this. Also, you got _so hot._ " 

 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Mizuki confesses, and tilts Fuji’s head back again, kissing him slow and deep and _urgent_ before letting him go. “More than usual, the last few weeks--god, Shuu, you can have whatever you want.” 

 

This is what Mizuki had always imagined kissing the right person would feel like, and that’s embarrassing on twenty or thirty levels. Unfortunately for what little pride he has left, he just doesn’t care. 

 

Then a mental image pops into his head, and he groans from that, from having Fuji under him, and he crawls up Fuji’s body, unbuckling his pants. “I want your mouth,” he breathes, and he knows he should be so much more embarrassed about that than he is.

 

"Yes," Fuji pants out before he can even think that response through, and admittedly, he doesn't try after that. He squirms instead, all to reach back and grab at a pillow, yanking it underneath his head before he hurriedly grabs for Mizuki's hips. 

 

There is no part of this that he should be enjoying. He doesn't _care_ about having his mouth on someone's dick, but apparently, his body begs to differ right now. His fingers twitch with the urge to help Mizuki get it out, but--"Feed it to me." His nails scrape a little against Mizuki's hips in his urgency, and if that isn't humiliating, nothing is. To hell with it.

 

Mizuki’s eyes roll back into his head a little at that, and he has to take a moment to gulp for air. Breathing, _breathing_ is a thing that humans do if they don’t want to pass out in the middle of the best blowjob of their lives. He tries breathing, and has marginal success.

 

Better is getting rid of his belt, and shoving his pants down to his knees. Fuji’s hands on his hips are all kinds of unfair, and he straddles Fuji’s shoulders and neck, finally shoving down his underwear. His cock is so hard it hits his stomach with a flat wet sound, and he takes it in hand, swallowing hard as he angles down. “This is like...all of my fantasies,” he admits with a tiny laugh, leaning forward to run a thumb over Fuji’s full bottom lip. “Open up for me, Shuu,” he whispers, and his cock replaces his thumb, leaving a sticky trail on that soft moue.

 

Obediently, unthinkingly, Fuji's lips part with a breathy, rumbling groan, his tongue flicking out over the head of Mizuki's cock in a long, wet swipe. Telling Mizuki that he's tried to jerk off to this a few times over now is silly and pointless, especially when he's getting it _now_ , and it's a dozen times better than his stupid hand and his stupid mind that won't _shut up_. 

 

It shuts up now. It shuts up when his lips stretch over the head of Mizuki's cock, and the next noise from Fuji's throat is low and hungry. His eyes flutter, and he lurches up a bit from the bed before Mizuki can slide his cock in further himself, all to let more of that cock sink into his mouth with a long, wet suck. His jaw already aches, because there _is_ a god in this world that caters to his fantasies, and the fact that Mizuki's already dripping over his tongue makes his own cock harder than it ever should be, makes his skin flush hot and his hands that much more grabby and insistent. 

 

Apparently, Mizuki has been wrong in the past, and there _is_ a right and a wrong way to do this, because this is definitely the right way, and everything else falls embarrassingly short.

 

He groans like Fuji is sucking his soul out through his cock, and uses his hand as a gauge, making himself take it slow and not just slam in all at once. Just having Fuji’s mouth on the head is better than he ever thought anything could really feel in real life, and he starts working his hips in shallow circles, rubbing the head over Fuji’s tongue. 

 

“You look perfect.” His voice is low and hoarse, and he pulls his cock out for a second to rub it on those swollen, shiny lips again before sliding it back in. “God, _Shuu_ \--”

 

A name-- _his_ name shouldn't go straight to his cock like that, but it _does_ , and it makes Fuji pant like he's going to die until he has that cock in his mouth again. He hears himself whimper, doesn't care, gives up, and every sound after that is unrepressed, if muffled by the fact that he's got a mouth full of a thick cock. 

 

He gives up even more after a certain point, and slides his hands around the backs of Mizuki's thighs, urging him forward. Fuji swallows him down, his throat working to take every inch of him at this angle, and every breath is some kind of a shaky inhale, exhale through his nose, _especially_ when Mizuki's cock bumps at the back of his throat. He doesn't gag, he's better than that, but his fingers do clench, nails scraping over soft skin, and his own cock _throbs_ between his legs, making him squirm and shift on the bed. 

 

Mizuki is dimly aware that this is the time for dirty talk, but can’t quite muster up the effort. Besides, it isn’t like a few words could make this any _better_ , not when his cock is being laved in hot, welcoming wet licks, feeling more like heaven than anything Mizuki has ever tasted in his life. 

 

 _Feed it to me_ , Fuji breathes in his memory, and he obeys, sliding deep inside, rubbing against that soft wet tongue, pulling out until Fuji can just barely lick the head, and sliding it back in in an easy rocking motion. Fuji is _enjoying_ this--Mizuki can see that, _loves_ that, and god, he tries to make it good when all he can think about is how perfect a mouth Fuji has, sticky and shiny and more pink with every thrust deep into his mouth. “Just--you’re--Shuu, more, _please_ \--” 

 

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for more of, just _more_.

 

 _Begging_ , in his blow jobs? Unheard of, but arousing, and enough to make Fuji sort of melt into the bed with a long, deep shudder. 

 

At some point, Mizuki's cock slips out of his mouth, and Fuji is hungry enough to surge up after it, his mouth dragging down the side of it, one hand pawing Mizuki's away to wrap around it and squeeze, needy and desperate. "Later," Fuji pants out, his breath hot and ragged between the swipes of his tongue, the messy kisses and sucks to the head of his cock, "you're going to hold me down and jerk off over my face after I get you to this point again. Do you know how _good_ your cock is, Hajime?" 

 

Mizuki’s hand slides down to press down on Fuji’s cock, wrapping around it and kneading slowly. “Good enough to make you hard like this,” he breathes, and doesn’t let up, not for a second, and slides back into Fuji’s mouth like he was made to go there. “But this time,” he promises, eyes alight and _intent_ , “you’re going to swallow it all, aren’t you, Shuu, because you’ve wanted it as bad as I’ve wanted you to have it, I _know_ you have.”

 

He lets go of Fuji’s cock--has to, the angle is no good--and fucks his mouth like he’s always wanted to, rocking inside, rough little circles that leave his lips shiny and bruised and swollen, until he’s so far over the edge he hardly even realizes he’s there, spilling in hot wet bursts over Fuji’s tongue that shatter him to the core.

 

“Shuu--” the name is drawn-out into something like a whine, and Mizuki’s hands are rough, clutching at Fuji’s hair, holding him in place as his hips circle in and out, in and out, making a horrible mess and liking that even more as stars burst behind his eyes.

 

There's _no_ easy way to swallow every single drop, but that's fine.

 

He swallows as much as he can all the same, his breath ragged through his nose, his tongue covered and his lips slick and bruised when Mizuki's cock eventually goes soft. He doesn't cough (rude), but he does turn his head aside, panting as he licks at his lips, lifting one hand to delicately wipe at his mouth and suck his fingers dry of everything that he's missed. 

 

"Christ," Fuji eventually breathes, flopping his head back with a breathy little laugh. His own cock still _aches_ , and he's pretty sure if he sneezes, he's _gone_. "Hajime, we could do that again." 

 

“Again?” Mizuki asks, high and breathy and a little startled with all of life. He leans down, and takes Fuji in a deep kiss, tasting himself and sternly warning his gag reflex to _just hold on_ , but strangely enough, it doesn’t seem to be necessary. “Again? Shuu, we’re not _done_.”

 

He crawls down, scooting until he’s straddling Fuji’s clothed hips, and rubs over the achingly hard bulge in Fuji’s pants. “Tell me what you want, you can have anything.”

 

They’re words he’s never spoken before, because he’s never meant it. Like this, with _him_ , Mizuki is pretty sure there’s nothing he’s ever meant more.

 

"C-careful, careful, or I'm really--" Fuji inhales sharply, pawing helplessly at Mizuki's chest, grabbing up a handful of fabric at some point to try and hold him still. "For starters," he manages, "you could kiss me like that again. And after that, you can work on getting it up again, because--" He swallows hard, licking at his lips and tasting Mizuki anew, which just makes his cock _twitch_ and his next breath break into a whimper. "You need to get _in me_." 

 

“Shuu,” Mizuki says, letting go of his cock and stretching out on top of him again, “I’m going to keep kissing you like this.” _Because it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do._

 

He tilts Fuji’s head up, meeting his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss, deeper than before, hungry and gentle all at the same time, tasting everything Fuji has to give, craving more even so, urging the other man’s hands up around his waist. Kissing has never been like this before, never felt like a full-body experience before, and Mizuki knows without a doubt that he’s ruined for kissing anyone else.

 

Fuji groans, and wriggles up against him, and clings to whatever part of Mizuki he can properly reach. Waist is a good place to start, but his back is better, especially when it means that he can rake his nails down the other boy's spine and feel every twitch and shiver of his body against him. 

 

The thing is, it's not even that Mizuki's a _great_ kisser. He's just-- _ugh_ , it's not fair, Fuji knows he's had _standards_ before. Still, being kissed by _Mizuki Hajime_ is now on a list of The Greatest Experiences He's Had, and that's both a travesty and something altogether perfect, especially when that tongue drags over his bruised lips, over _his_ tongue, even when their teeth end up gently clicking together because they can't quite _stop_. 

 

"Shirt off," Fuji rasps against Mizuki's mouth, yanking on the offensive thing, wanting skin and nothing _but_ skin underneath his hands in the near future.

 

It probably takes less than a minute to get his shirt off, but it’s a minute filled with curses, struggles, and swearing in a way that would make the nuns of St. Rudolph seek Mizuki out with a ruler. Fuji’s shirt, fortunately, comes off much more easily, and Mizuki is back on him in a flash, his hands reaching down to fumble with Fuji’s pants. He’s not the best at this in the world, but he is _eager_ to get them both naked, and apparently, that counts for quite a bit.

 

“You’re always naked,” he rasps, hands dragging down Fuji’s bare thighs, up his sides, “and I _always_ want to touch you, fuck, I need you on my cock, Shuu, I _need_ it--”

 

That's enough to make Fuji's vision spin, and he nods frantically, all sense and logic gone once more when he's got his thighs around Mizuki's waist and dragging him in closer with equally needy hands. 

 

Mizuki might be taller now, with those nice, _nice_ shoulders, but there's still that _perfect_ softness all over, enough for Fuji to sink his nails into and _knead_. " _Please_ tell me you've got lube stashed around here somewhere," he groans, his head lolling back onto a pillow as his chest heaves. His own cock is hard and heavy against his stomach, and he reaches a hand down, giving it a long, hard squeeze to keep himself in check. It doesn't help. Mostly, it just makes him shudder. "And fuck condoms, just put it in me." 

 

“ _Yeah_ , but it’s--”

 

Mizuki forces himself to get off of Fuji, stumbling over to his own side of the room to grab a bottle of a surprisingly high-end bottle of lube--because some things, as Mizuki has said many times, are worth splurging on. He makes it back in one piece (somehow), and sets the bottle down on the bedside table with a _thunk_ , taking a moment to stare at the picture Fuji makes before getting on top of him again. “You want to do it?” he asks, breathless and needy and already slicking up his fingers. “Or you want me to?”

 

"You." Normally, and by that he means _every single time_ , the answer is _just let me do it._ Now, though, there's not a single question otherwise. Fuji wriggles down, splaying his legs and throwing an arm around Mizuki's neck to haul him down, kissing him on the mouth before moving up to his nose, his cheeks, and then briefly buries his face into his hair. "I _don't_ like this part," he warns in advance. "So if I kick you, that's why, not because I can't take it." 

 

“Kick me as hard as you want,” Mizuki says breathlessly, kissing back just as hard, sliding a hand down. “Just don’t kick me in the balls if you want me to fuck you.” 

 

It’s hard to think that this isn’t worth a little bruising, as his slippery hand moves down to slide between creamy thighs, up to somewhere so soft and secret it feels like an answer to a prayer. It’s a pretty high-end thing to think about an ass, and Mizuki laughs at himself for it briefly. Then he slides a finger up and _in_ , because if there’s one thing he knows he can do in bed, this is a big part of it. “I’ll go as slow as you need,” he promises, steeling himself for a kick, rubbing his thumb up higher, his other hand coming up to rest around Fuji’s neck--not grabbing, just holding, stroking. “Or as fast as you want, just tell me.”

 

Fuji kind of expects to hate this all over again, to deliver that swift kick to the balls because it's easier to just end it than keep going, but it's… _okay._

 

Mizuki's not a miracle worker, and Fuji doesn't expect him to be. Being fingered is just something that he doesn't _like_ , because if there's going to be something in him, it doesn't need to be small and fiddly and wriggly. But this is all right, mostly courtesy of the fact that Mizuki has long, _nice_ fingers, and he knows how to angle them so it's less annoying, much _better_. 

 

One leg twitches, but he curls his toes into the bed instead to keep himself still. "It's fine. You're fine. That's…good, yes, okay, hurry up and do the thing so you can put it _in me_ \--" He might be whining now, he's definitely whining now. 

 

“Faster, got it,” Mizuki notes, trying to remember how to breathe when Fuji is just...fuck, he’s just _good_. He adds another finger, twisting and stretching, rubbing the lube all around the rim, because so many people don’t understand what fingering is even _for_. It’s not about making a finger into a small dick, it’s about opening the hole, stretching it, and he adds a third when he knows Fuji’s ready, widening his fingers apart before withdrawing them. “If you can take that,” he says, leaning back on his knees to slick himself up, “you can take me.” 

 

He covers Fuji’s body with his own again, kissing him hard and deep when he brings up his cock to nudge against the slippery hole. He grabs Fuji’s legs, bending them back, testing his flexibility--a hell of a lot better than anything he’s used to working with, to be honest--and urges them up over his shoulders. “I want to be in really deep. You can take it like this?” For all his desperation, for all the throbbing ache of his cock, it’s a real question, and his eyes are intent on Fuji’s.

 

"Uh huh," Fuji somehow remembers to breathe, his eyes rolling back the moment he feels Mizuki's cock pressing and rubbing against him. It takes a bit of effort not to squeeze his legs around Mizuki's head and tell him to _hurry up_ , but better is just being bent in two, with his hands pretty damn good at still reaching for Mizuki's hair or his face or his arms. 

 

 _Thinking_ about Mizuki being entirely inside of him is enough to make his cock twitch and drip again, and Fuji's breath hitches hard. "Make me come on your dick." It's not going to take much, but god, if he isn't _ready_.

 

“You’re going to,” Mizuki promises, bending to kiss Fuji’s cheek, his neck, his ear, and he murmurs, “Because you really want to, don’t you?”

 

Fuji is stretched and ready, but Mizuki can _feel_ that it’s been a long time from his reactions, the way he clenches and writhes and twitches with each slow inch. God, there’s nothing in the world that’s better than the way Fuji is wriggling underneath him, _grateful_ for his cock, ready for every inch of it in his body, and Mizuki doesn’t hold back.

 

It’s a long slide in, and Mizuki has to take a break halfway to pant heavily, trying not to lose it, before he can start rocking in deeper, more and more cock with every thrust, grateful for this position that lets him get in all the way. “Feel it,” he groans, face buried in Fuji’s neck, unable to stop kissing every part of him that he can reach. “Shuu, it’s _so good_ \--”

 

Fuji's fairly certain that he's making a bunch of worthless, useless, squeaky little noises at this point, and that could be worse. 

 

There's not much he can do to _help it_ , anyway, not when Mizuki's got him pinned underneath his weight. Fuji's bent and clinging to him, suddenly so full that he can't properly breathe. His hands wrap themselves up into Mizuki's hair, curling in close to his scalp, and his breath his hot and ragged when it escapes. He can feel every single inch, every slick, aching thrust, the way that his whole body shivers and clenches and even if it's been awhile, it's _so_ good--

 

"Fuck," Fuji whimpers, sagging back, releasing Mizuki's hair in favor of just letting a hand scrabble back and half heartedly cling to the bedsheets. His lips part when he glances down, because he can _see_ like this how far Mizuki's cock is sinking into him, how much it's stuffing him full, and that's obscene enough to make his brain click off entirely. "Hajime--j-just--fuck me like--" _Like I'm yours, like any of this is_ ever _going to make any sense._  

 

Mizuki turns his head, pressing frenzied, needy kisses to the inside of one smooth leg, and somehow that feels right. Just behind the knee there--that’s intimate, something he’s never thought of doing with Yuu--with anyone else, he corrects himself, because the only time he’s been this _lost_ is with Fuji.

 

He’s lost, but not so far gone that he can’t make it _good_. Every time he sinks deep into Fuji, he groans, swallowed and sucked in and _taken_ , and Fuji’s trembling thighs are what he’s stayed alive this long to see, he’s pretty sure. _You’re never going to want anyone else when I’m done,_ he hears himself thinking, and just the _thought_ of that is enough to make his hips snap in hard. 

 

“Shuu,” he pants, and lurches up, fond, urgent kisses to every part of Fuji he can reach with every brutal thrust. “Feel it, god, I’m in every part of you.” Nothing he’s saying makes sense, and that’s _good_ , because everything he’s doing makes too much sense when it’s _Fuji_.

 

Fuck it, he's done. 

 

Fuji arches up mindlessly, whimpering when that just ends up shoving him down harder onto Mizuki's cock. That feels _good_ , like he's about to break, somehow, and his cock is leaking over his own stomach so much that he _swears_ he might have already come, at least once, maybe more. 

 

Except when he snakes a shaky, mindless hand there to maybe urge it along, there's really no point. 

 

He doesn't even get to touch himself before he's lost, before he's grinding down onto Mizuki's cock as his own pulses and twitches and spills. Even _after_ he's pretty sure that's done and over with, _everything_ still twitches, everything makes him jerk and gasp and grab at whatever part of Mizuki he can reach--shoulders, arms, his neck a little bit, because he can't think and can't be fucked to process anything more than his entire body shivering down to his toes. 

 

If there’s one thing Mizuki is used to, it’s going on, _on_ after his partner is done. He’s used to that with Yuuta, spending all of his energy making sure he gets off, then raggedly, roughly finishing himself off at the end, trying to be quick about it so it isn’t too much of an intrusion.

 

This is _not_ one of those times.

 

Fuji clutches at him, spasms around him, and Mizuki loses his mind. He thrusts in _hard_ , once, twice, and he’s done, a harsh sob muffled into Fuji’s neck, shaking and clinging to him as he spills in deep, wet pulses. 

 

It’s all the tension he’s carried, all the lust and repressed wanting he’s felt since being humiliated on the courts, all the shame and craving and everything he’s never been allowed to have, trembling in his arms, and his own voice saying shakily, “Shuu, you’re _perfect_ , god, Shuu...”

 

His name isn't supposed to sound that good coming from Mizuki, but it _does_ , and that's the final, last stone pulled out of the dam before it collapses.

 

Fuji sags down into the bed, a shivering, trembling mess, sticky and exhausted and entirely too sated and fucking Christ, his face is wet. That's not what he wants. His breath is hiccuping, too, which makes it harder to hide, and he hurriedly, weakly wriggles to get himself at least vaguely untangled so that it's easier to pull a pillow over his own face and sob into that like a five year old. "Don't look at me right now," he hears himself bemoan, all sniffly and shaky and muffled. "I'm fine, I swear, this doesn't _happen_ , sorry, I'm sorry." 

 

Mizuki somehow manages to get his arms around Fuji and the pillow both, not making any attempt to dislodge it from his face but squishing him close all the same. “It’s fine,” he assures him, and starts combing his fingers gently through Fuji’s hair, detangling and straightening the mess of it ( _he_ did that, made that mess, fucked him so good). “Take your time, it’s not even close to the weirdest thing I’ve heard after sex.”

 

Fuji's not entirely sure if he should laugh or cry harder at that, so he does a little of both. " _God_ ," he groans/huffs/sobs, shoving his face harder into the pillow in hopes that he'll just suffocate. It's a conflicting thought when he burrows himself closer to Mizuki as well, still occasionally shivering. _Congratulations, now you've fucked_ two _nutcases._ "L-let's just say that it was because it was so good, okay? Yeah." 

 

“I don’t care why it’s happening,” Mizuki says frankly, not stopping his petting. “Shuu, it’s really not bothering me, go for it. I’m just glad you’re not kicking me in the balls for the way my voice goes up three octaves when I come, okay?”

 

That's another broken, wet laugh, and being petted _is_ helping. Mizuki's hands in his hair has been something that's helped a lot over the past few months, actually, and Fuji focuses on that for a few minutes before slowly, gradually settling into something akin to normal breathing that isn't _entirely_ punctuated by lingering little hiccups. "Sorry," he mumbles again, slowly peeling his way away from the pillow, his face red and blotchy and sore. "I don't know w-what that was about. And your voice goes up so high that I don't even think I heard it." 

 

“Or,” Mizuki suggests, “we could talk about how fantastic you are at sucking cock, and how good it felt when my dick was in you. I’m not the only person who thinks that’s worth talking about, right?” He gives each red eye a soft kiss, then one to Fuji’s forehead. “Okay, Shuu? That’s all that matters right now.”

 

Fuji sniffs, and nods. "Uh huh. Okay." _Sorry that you're having to do this, I really wanted to be cool about this, this wasn't supposed to be 'emotional wasteland' night._

 

None of that comes out, and instead, he just flops his head against Mizuki's chest, knocking his forehead there lightly. "You have a really nice dick. Do you know how many times I've gotten off with a dick in me before? One." Yeah, this is easier to talk about.

 

Mizuki doesn’t stop petting him, nuzzling into the top of his head. “I’m going to take the compliment,” he warns, “though I’m not sure if I’d prefer that it was because my dick is nice or because I’m good at using it.” He strokes through Fuji’s hair, separating out sweat-damp strands, using his other arm to pull him close by the waist. “Or because together we seem to be...just rather excellent, damn.”

 

"It's all three things," Fuji dreamily says, flopping expertly against Mizuki once he's dragged closer. Ah. Yes. This is better. He can do this part now, pretty sure. "What's up with that? How did that happen? You've been fucking my brother, he couldn't have been _that_ great of practice, he's a big virgin." 

 

Mizuki shrugs. “I don’t know. Natural talent? Ah, no, I’ve got it, it’s that he was so much work that anyone would be easier.” His hand strokes over a smooth hip--god, Fuji has such a surprisingly feminine figure, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it. “Plus, we _do_ seem to sort of...fit together, don’t we?”

 

"Mmn. It's good. I'm not easy, though. I'm picky." Fuji lays his hands flat against Mizuki's chest, analyzing. "You got _so_ tall," he says, somewhat amazed. "And your shoulders are really nice. And please don't cut your hair, I need that ponytail in my life." 

 

“That’s really all it takes, hmm?” Mizuki laughs, and rakes the hair back from his face. “The Watashi room is going to be known as the long-hair room now, you know. Ugh, all my pants are short, I’m going to have to take the hems down, don’t let me forget.”

 

"Well, it was more than _that_ ," Fuji defensively mutters. "I have stronger self-control than you'd _think_." He doesn't. That's a lie. But he _tried_ , until the hair. And shoulders. "I mean, like, you don't have to have hair as long as mine, but it's good like this. It's so floofy." He just has to touch it. "Your shoulders aren't gonna work in your uniforms, either."

 

“They’re not... _comfortable_ ,” Mizuki allows. He nuzzles against Fuji’s hair, inhaling that expensive shampoo, trying not to mentally compare it to Yuuta’s cologne and failing miserably (happily). “What’s so good about the ponytail? The glasses, I figured that was Tezuka, but...”

 

"I just like good hair. And I didn't think 'Tezuka' with the glasses." Fuji shudders a little. "That would be weird. Maybe I just like the hot nerd look…" He trails off contemplatively, and slowly tips to the side. "I'm guessing that you aren't, like…really broken up with Yuuta yet, though." 

 

Ah. Oops. Mizuki gnaws slightly on his bottom lip, feeling it still swollen from kisses, and can’t feel too bad. “Not exactly,” he admits. “I mean, we have a _talk_ scheduled, and we both _know_ which way it’s going, but...we haven’t exactly said the words yet.”

 

Fuji groans, and reaches for his pillow again to tug it over his face. " _Great_. So I broke the rule after all. I'm trash." 

 

“Shuu.” Mizuki grabs the pillow, and tosses it over onto his own bed. “Nothing was going to save it with Yuuta. I’m the trash one, you know. I’d have done it with you any time, literally up to and including the day Yuuta and I got together, and I wouldn’t have felt all that bad about it.”

 

"I know _you're_ trash. I was _trying_ to be a good brother, and…" Fuji huffs at the loss of his pillow, and flops a few inches away. "I was really hoping that you two had broken up already. It didn't even occur to me that you hadn't, because he hasn't spoken to me since you _left_." 

 

Mizuki’s head tilts, and he frowns slightly. “Hmm. Maybe we _are_ broken up, then. I mean, it isn’t as though we kissed goodbye, and I was very, ah, emphatic about my displeasure with him at the time.”

 

"Can you, I don't know, _check?_ " Fuji weakly presses. "Because I don't want to again. It's going to get really weird and suspicious and he's going to start yelling at me about it being my fault all over again and I'm really sick of it." 

 

“Or,” Mizuki points out, smushing Fuji’s face into his chest, “I could break up with him, and we can just not tell him that we’ve started dating for a while. It’s not like he’s coming down here to _check_.”

 

"…How sure are you?" Fuji warily asks, peering up from underneath his bangs. "Because don't put it past him. Actually, I never want to tell him that we're dating; not until I'm done with this stupid stage work, because knowing him, he'll throw a fit and out me to my agent and that's just rude." 

 

“I’m sure that it’s the best course of action,” Mizuki hedges slightly. “Look, it’s Yuuta. Even if he does show up here, all we have to do is act like we’re fighting. I’ll throw paisley at you, it’ll be eminently believable.”

 

"But I'm burning all of the paisley. Especially your shirts." 

 

“Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean I’m going to go to school naked! There’s no reason it should mean that! And you are not touching my bathrobes!”

 

" _I_ ," Fuji archly replies, "don't remember being asked out. Putting your dick in me isn't a proposal, _Hajime._ Either way, I'm burning the paisley. It's not like it's going to fit, anyway, you need a new wardrobe." 

 

Mizuki rolls firmly on top of Fuji, pinning him down by the shoulders to the bed. “Why do _I_ have to ask?” he complains. “You’re the one taking it upon yourself to ruin me, I can’t afford a new wardrobe.”

 

"You're heavy," Fuji says, and it's more an observation, not a complaint. "Listen, you have two choices. One, I burn everything and go shopping for your new wardrobe alone, or two, I burn everything and you come with me and have some input. Be a man, ask me out properly. My last boyfriend did it while dipping me in public." 

 

Mizuki narrows his eyes. “That’s an awfully high standard,” he warns, “and I’m not decent for public displays of affection. My dick is out.”

 

"You can tell me I'm pretty and that you want to date me and come to my stupid stage play. That's comparable." 

 

“I don’t want to come to your stupid stage play,” Mizuki lies, “but I _do_ want to watch old movies with you and go antiquing and take you to the world’s most beautiful restaurants, and I’ve wanted to do that with you for years.” His expression softens, and he leans down, kissing Fuji gently. “Date me. Please. This is as nice as I ever get.”

 

Fuji huffs, and he wriggles an arm free to give Mizuki's chest a half-hearted shove. "Fine. That'll do. But I'm getting you tickets and you have to come or I'm going to lock you out and never buy you hair dye again. God, you didn't even tell me that I'm pretty."

 

“You’re prettier when I do your hair,” Mizuki teases, and squirms around to get comfortable. “We should put the beds together. We’ll have more room. Couples do that.”

 

"But what will become of the infamous line of tape?" Fuji laments, letting his head loll back. "Also, I kick."

 

“Kick me as hard as you want, I’m still going to put my dick in you.”

 

"In the middle of the night when I'm sleeping? Rude." 

 

“Keep me satisfied before you fall asleep, and we won’t have this problem. I’d rather do it face-to-face anyway.”

 

"Hmmm. Yeah, trying to do me up against a wall like you did with Yuuta all the time is really not gonna do it for me. Same with the face down thing, I fucking hate that." 

 

“If you start asking for what he asks for in bed,” Mizuki warns, “we’re going to have a problem. I’d rather you top than go through that.”

 

"Gross. About the same thing he wants, I mean, not the topping thing. I'm good at that, thanks." 

 

Mizuki’s eyes shift, and he wriggles down farther, laying a hand on Fuji’s abdomen. “Would you be annoyed,” he asks quietly, “if I didn’t want you to? Or is it important to you either way?”

 

Fuji pauses, thinks about it, and reaches back lazily to pull a pillow down that he can properly drop his head onto, considering _someone_ tossed his other one away. "It's not like… _super_ important. Right, real talk time, do you just like absolutely hate it?" he presses. "Because if so, then I'll never bring it up and I don't care. I just like knowing why, because some guys are gross and I already know you're trash." 

 

Mizuki laughs, and stretches out, long toes wriggling as his sore joints find a comfortable resting spot. Growing six inches in four months is _awful_ , and he wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. “The idea has never appealed to me,” he admits, “but I’ve never given it serious thought, either.” He pauses, looks down at Fuji’s cock, and shrugs. “I’d let you try it, I think.” It should go without saying that he’d never let Yuuta--who would never want to, anyway.

 

"I might want to, at some point," Fuji honestly says. "And I _know_ I'm good at it, that's the thing. But if you're not into it, then I'm not going to be either, so what's the point?" He bats his eyelashes over at Mizuki. "Just think about it like you're being done by a girl with a strap-on. That's what did it for Taka-san." 

 

“Shuu, if you think I’m afraid of your dick, I’m going to have to disillusion you.” Mizuki reaches down and gives it a deliberate gentle squeeze. “You’re not a substitute for a woman in my bed, _god_.”

 

"It's a joke, asshole--ah, quit, don't get me started again," Fuji groans, half-heartedly batting Mizuki's hand away. "Liiisten, the point is, I like your dick a lot, I'm usually gonna want it in me, so I think we're good."

 

“I’m not saying you can’t have mine,” Mizuki says, and avoids Fuji’s hit, going back to a gentle finger running up the soft length of Fuji’s cock. “But...hmm.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know you were such a gentle flower, Shuu. Only once in a night? Are you sure you’re fifteen?”

 

"I'm three and a half, actually." 

 

Mizuki sighs. “How many times must I suffer through that joke?”

 

"A few." Fuji beams, and grabs him by the arm, hauling him closer. "No one's here to stop me."

 

“I’m here. Do I not count?” Mizuki throws a leg over him, his cock already half-hard again just from proximity. “Don’t mind that, it always happens when you’re around.”

 

"You never count, obviously." Fuji arches an eyebrow, and promptly nuzzles his face into Mizuki's neck. "Were you always this horny with Yuuta? No wonder he was so _haggard._ "

 

“Mm, no. That was...usually always on his schedule, to be honest. He was rather demanding about what counted as sex.” Who knows, now that he’s with Fuji, Mizuki might actually get the chance to try out foreplay for once.

 

"Hm. He definitely never wanted to admit that to me." Fuji nudges his nose gently into the crook of Mizuki's shoulder. "I'm rarely going to say 'no', just so you know," he cheerfully admits. "Sometimes, it just takes me a bit to warm up, so to speak." 

 

“Oh?” That’s definitely good news, and Mizuki trails his hand up, gently stroking over the hollow of Fuji’s throat. “Do you have any tips for warming you up?” he asks shamelessly. “I’d rather have the cheat sheet than crib one myself, if you don’t mind.”

 

"Umm…is it sad that I really don't even know? Don't answer that." Fuji sets his teeth lightly to the curve of Mizuki's shoulder, thinking. "Just certain things. When you play with my hair. Those little errant comments you make about what you're going to do to me later. Petting me, like that, yes. I like that. And I'm honestly always game for kissing and I do fit nicely into most laps." 

 

Mizuki’s fingers don’t still, stroking over soft skin, mapping and memorizing every square inch that falls under his fingertips. “You know,” he says at last, with a kiss brushed to Fuji’s hairline, “those are all very passive things. If you had free reign in bed, what would you want to do?”

 

Fuji pauses, thinks, and then looks Mizuki dead in the eye and asks, "Have you ever read the _Game of Thrones_ books?"

 

Mizuki raises an eyebrow. “I’m assuming,” he says very seriously, “that you mean _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , not the HBO show of the same name that is, in my opinion, a far inferior version of a masterful work.”

 

There's a little squeak that escapes Fuji's throat, and he grabs Mizuki's wrists with both hands, eyes wide. "You actually _know it?_ God, of course you do. _Listen_ , sometimes, I really wish I could make a reference to being Daenerys and having a dragon absolutely ravish me and no one _gets it._ Or vice versa. I'm a pretty horrifying dragon." 

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Mizuki is nearly vibrating under Fuji’s hold. “Shuu,” he says slowly, turning his hands so he can grab Fuji’s wrists in turn, “I’ll have you know that my dragon shriek is in _excellent_ form...my khaleesi.”

 

That's it. Good bye. Fuji melts. "We can run away and get married now, I think." 

 

In response, Mizuki tilts his head back and gives an inhuman shriek.


	10. Yukimura & Niou, Atobe & Tezuka

In England, there's even more of a pull to the tennis court, and that could be far worse. 

 

There are only so many museums to go to, so many art exhibits, so many historical monuments, especially when he's _by himself._ Yukimura figured that out months ago, and it's why he wakes up, sits on the court all day, occasionally gets dragged off by his agent to meet new people (which are always nice enough, but come with their own sets of issues), and goes _back_ to the court until they shut the lights off on him. 

 

Now, arriving back at his apartment and dripping wet from sweat and rain alike, Yukimura wearily realizes it's been another day like that, except minus the chattering with his agent and therefore, _other_ _people_.

 

He unlocks the door with a sigh, wonders if _anyone_ is awake to call him or text him, and nearly drops his tennis bag and bolts right back out the door when he registers a _person_ on his couch. No--not just a person. " _Niou?"_

 

“Yeah, puri.”

 

It’s almost too much work to say that, and Niou sketches out a quick two-finger salute from where he’s sprawled, reading the kind of British tabloid that’s usually given out for free on the streets. “Yo, Boss, thought you’d be gone all night. I know the workaholic thing is very you, but there’s a limit. And your fridge sucks.”

 

"Um?" Yukimura feels that's a very appropriate response, though he's still sort of going through the stunned motions of arriving home by shutting his door and stepping out of his shoes. "But--um--you're _here_." The shock is starting to wear off, and it's turning quickly into some kind of giddy relief. " _Seriously_?"

 

Niou summons what’s left of his energy, and lurches up from the couch to butt his head against Yukimura’s shoulder. “I wanted to hang out,” he says, annoyed at himself for being so pathetically affectionate. “So I’m here. It’s not like a big deal or anything.”

 

And with that, Yukimura promptly launches himself onto the couch and subsequently Niou, half-soaked clothes and all. "It's a _really_ big deal," he huffs, stuffing his face into Niou's neck, unrepentant. "Listen--I really like England, and I'm really, _really_ glad to be here playing tennis, but I _miss_ everyone. You. I miss _you_."

 

“You better.” Sulky, yes, Niou can do sulky. Sulky is less embarrassing than clingy, so that’s where he’ll stay with an enormous yawn. “Jet lag sucks,” he says, and lays back on the couch, arms wrapped around Yukimura. “What is there to do here? I’m probably not going to do it. Feed me.”

 

"Stuff. I dunno, I've done most of it. I can get delivery food, I don't wanna go out again." Yukimura makes no attempt to get up just yet. Niou smells like _home_ , and even if that's not really usual when it comes to Niou, it's still _familiar_ , especially considering how usual it became when he was stuck in a hospital room, day in and day out and Niou was the one that cut class and--

 

Nope, not gonna go there. "When does your flight leave? How did you get _in_ my apartment, there's only one key!"

 

Niou focuses on the important stuff first. “I got in because you’re not exactly top security,” he says frankly. “Your super thinks you forgot your key. My illusion wasn’t even that great, I think he probably thinks all Asians look alike.” He butts his head against Yukimura’s shoulder again. “Don’t have a return flight. I’ll go whenever.”

 

"I'm keeping you forever," Yukimura groans, giving Niou's shoulders a last squeeze before he just has to check--yep, good. "Still crunchy," he mutters as his hand sinks into Niou's hair. "Do you want Indian or something? Do you know _how much_ Indian food is around here?" 

 

“No, how much? I can pay if it’s a lot.” Niou’s eyes lid, and his foot twitches at Yukimura’s fingernails scraping along his scalp. “Good, good, yeah, _good_ ,” he slurs.

 

This is therapy in every single way that Yukimura didn't know he needed. "No, I've got this. You're my guest, I'm going to feed you. After," he determinedly says, kneading his fingers into Niou's scalp, his own legs slowly kicking back and forth, "I touch your hair for awhile. Hey--it's not summer vacation there yet, right? Are you just cutting school entirely?" 

 

“Yeah, uh, I just don’t care.” Niou shrugs, and leans farther into the touch. No one touches his hair like Yukimura does, which is a fucking shame. “I’ll go back eventually, I guess. Yagyuu will fill in for me if it gets way too long, he’ll feel like he has to.”

 

Yukimura snickers. "So much for his perfect attendance. True love at its finest, you've found a real winner, Niou." Begrudgingly, after another moment of petting, he pries himself away in search of one of the many menus stuck to his fridge as well as his cellphone. "Okay, but if I'm feeding you, you do have to tell me about everything that's been going on. With everyone. Every single detail. I'm assuming you're still 3000% a carnivore, right?" 

 

“Only meat passes my lips,” Niou agrees easily, wiggling his toes as he stretches out. “This doesn’t count as gossip, right? Because I’ll tell you, like, anything. No shame, no secrets. My loyalty to you comes first.”

 

"Right, cats need taurine," Yukimura logically agrees, dialing and pressing the phone to his ear. "You're going to talk to me all night about people and things after I feed you with all the delivery food that you can handle." 

 

It might _seem_ like a lot of food, but Yukimura knows better. He's fed his _team_ a dozen times over, after all, and between Sanada, Marui, and Niou, it's a rare day that anyone can even come close to keeping up. This is why he tips the delivery man a bit extra for coming out so late in the rain, and flops down, now dry, at least, and his bangs tossed up into a hair tie, distributing a dozen boxes of food in Niou's direction and a pair in his own. "So, where do we start? The Kantou?" 

 

“Sure, sure,” Niou says, fiddling confusedly with utensils for a moment before gripping a fork in his right hand, knife in his left, and leaning down close to the food to cut it before giving up and using a spoon for everything. “You want to hear about Kirihara just barely scraping by a win to a public school, or us not dropping a game the entire season so far?”

 

"…Both, but start with Akaya," Yukimura begrudgingly says, and briefly gets up, trots into the kitchen, and comes back out with chopsticks that are promptly plopped into Niou's hold. "I thought my sister was helping him. _She_ has a good head on her shoulders, at least." 

 

Niou immediately sets the chopsticks in his left hand and starts swiftly making the food disappear. “Thing is,” he says around a mouthful of chicken korma, “sometimes the other guy has a good head on his shoulders, too. Fudoumine has a bone to pick, and they’re all third-years this year. It was good games, I guess.”

 

Yukimura just has to cringe. "At least he won. I know Akaya's been trying hard, but he still worries me. Sometimes, the text messages he sends me are incomprehensible, and have a lot to do with him wanting to come over to England and…ugh. It was almost better," he darkly says, "when he and Renji were dating."

 

“What almost?” Niou sighs, and switches to an entire round of naan bread, ripping off chunks voraciously and using them to scoop up meat. “Then they were trying to keep it secret. I didn’t have to deal with it all the time. Now he’s in that nasty smart guys club and boy, they all think they’re fucking good at math and insults when they’re fair to average at both.”

 

"Ah…yeah, Genichirou was talking about that. Renji's been ignoring him, apparently." Yukimura pauses, watching with somewhat morbid fascination at how fast Niou can eat, and how _much_. He's missed having that entertainment value, so sue him. "You're definitely better at math than Renji, though, and he hates that. What's the deal with his, um… _harem_ now? Mitsuya's always been weird, but that Inui guy from Seigaku, too…"

 

“It’s all three of them together. Not sure if they’re fucking,” Niou allows, “at least not physically, but they’re kinda...I dunno. Creepy. Secret language style freaky. I haven’t seen any of them alone since the school year started.”

 

"Weird," Yukimura agrees. "If I was there, Renji wouldn't be this weird." Which makes him a little stressed and worried all over again for the team--for _everyone_ , and he has to shove that down with a deep breath. "But you guys have been winning everything still, right? I heard about your line-up, and it seems pretty much perfect, assuming Mouri isn't lazy as hell." 

 

“He’s lazy as hell,” Niou says around a mouthful of tandoori eggplant, something that sounds so wrong and tastes so right. “But we’re all good enough that it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t had to play once this season. I think everyone else is kinda hoping he gets embarrassed in the first couple rounds of Nationals and wakes up, but I don’t give a shit, we’re winning.” He takes a brief break to breathe, and rests his chin on his hand. “I’m bored with winning. Might throw a few games.”

 

"Nooo, don't do that," Yukimura whines, reaching out to steal a piece of eggplant from one of Niou's boxes and dunking it into the rice of one of his own. "It's good when you win everything. Everyone's _scared_. You and Yagyuu are still the number one doubles pair in the country, right? Keep it that way with a perfect record, you could get scouted." 

 

Niou makes a face. “Yagyuu’s getting bored, too,” he says, poking a lump and deciding to leave it alone. “Scouted for what? You want me to move over here and be a tennis man?”

 

"You _could_. You'd make it, you know. You're really good. And hot," Yukimura idly points out. "That helps. Speaking of which, if you're staying here awhile, you're _definitely_ helping me out with my doubles game." 

 

“Sounds good. You still shit at it?” Niou doesn’t say anything about moving. If he says something, it’ll make him want to do the opposite. Maybe. Not sure yet.

 

"…N…o?" Yukimura hedges, and heaves a sigh. "Yes. Yes, I am. My agent wants me to play at some charity thing in a  doubles match but I don't want to _completely_ fail." 

 

 “Yeah, we can do the thing.” Niou looks around, then gives up and lays back. “Drinks? Are you still Japanese, or are you drinking black tea now?”

 

"I have green tea! Somewhere." Yukimura hauls himself to his feet. "But black tea _is_ really good, you know. I'm going to convert you." 

 

In the midst of the tea-making, he finally, pathetically has to ask: "So is Genichirou like… _so_ miserable?" 

 

“Uh, yeah.” Niou shrugs. “It’s kinda his thing nowadays, I think. He just glares all the time and sits alone when he’s not with Kite.”

 

That's enough to make him twitch. "Ah. Yeah. I think Marui mentioned something about him and Kite being…friendly." 

 

“I dunno, they punch each other and swap exchange diaries and shit.” Niou pauses, and frowns a little. “If it were, like, anyone else, I’d think they were fucking. But it’s _Sanada_.”

 

The tea is set down in front of Niou with another little twitch. "Uh huh. Would you say that they're _best friends?_ I mean, I'm glad that he has someone to talk to, but if they're getting close to _that_ level…" 

 

“I’d say they’re gross and I don’t go near them because they’re both really sexually frustrated martial artists and I don’t want to die,” Niou says frankly, and sips his nasty tea. “Do I get sugar with this?”

 

" _God_ , you're high maintenance," Yukimura complains, even as he slides the sugar dish over all the same. "I thought Marui wanted a piece of Kite's ass. That's all he ever talks to me about anymore, why aren't _they_ fucking?" 

 

Niou tips half of the sugar container into the tea, then sips and nods. “Yeah, better. Those two are _dumb_ , Boss. They’ll sit there like... ‘Oh, Marui-kun, I see my racket is on the bottom today. How interesting and agreeable.’ ‘Oh, wow, Kite-kun, that’s great because mine is on top...and I like it there, haha, I’m a genius wow.’ ‘You like it there, Marui-kun?’ ‘Yeah, haha, I like to be on top...with my racquet...’ and then they stare at each other for ten minutes with their boners getting harder and then Mouri-buchou makes them run laps.”

 

Yukimura buries his face into one hand. "At least Mouri gets it. Why aren't they just doing it? Can't you tell them to just do it? Niou, that's all he ever has to talk about on the phone. _That's it_. And if you think Kite is trying to muscle his way into Sanada's pants, then I _definitely_ want Marui to just fuck him and get it over with." 

 

“I’m not going to make them do it,” Niou says seriously, patting Yukimura on the arm, “because it’s really fucking funny watching them fail. Don’t take this from me.”

 

"Niiiiou," Yukimura whines, slumping over to the floor and staring mournfully up at him. "I just want people to call me and talk about good things. Or bad things. Not about how they can't get laid. _I_ don't get to get laid, they should at least be getting laid!"

 

“You know you could have anyone.” Niou raises an eyebrow. “Like. Anyone.”

 

"Um, obviously? But Genichirou and I are still dating. You know that!"

 

Niou shrugs. “Just pointing out a thing you might not have figured out before. Just saying, you’re both really miserable and celibate, that looks like it sucks.”

 

"It does! It really sucks!" Yukimura thrashes, rolling to the side with a huff. "I haven't gotten laid in _months_ ," he laments. "And he won't come out here, no matter how much I beg. It's not like I can leave, I'm _working_. He could at least promise to come out over summer vacation or something, but nope." 

 

“He’s a stick in the mud. He’s literally a stick in the mud, Boss, I’m kinda confused about you being surprised.”

 

Yukimura's lips purse. "I thought he'd at least want to come see me once in awhile. It's not like I'm gonna drag him through clubs or something while he's here."

 

“Uh huh.” Niou blinks slowly, full of food and starting to fade from jet lag. “And he’s a boring asshole. He has literally always been a boring asshole that you like because he plays tennis pretty good.”

 

"That's not the only reason why I like him! Ugh, you're not being helpful, we're continuing this later," Yukimura crossly mutters, hauling himself to his feet and grabbing for Niou's hand. "Come on, you can sleep in my bed with me, I haven't had time to get a new body pillow and you'll suffice."

 

“Good. I’m gonna flop. Not sure how long or what day I’ll wake up, fair warning,” Niou says, moulding himself to Yukimura as soon as he gets into the bed and passing out immediately.

 

~

 

Yukimura, as it turns out, is just as shitty a doubles player as Niou remembers. That’s not exactly news, but it’s not exactly great, either, when Niou isn’t sure he has ten years to train him into something different. The first few bouts against the tennis ball machine on the courts (fancy courts, the kind of courts Niou doesn’t care too much about but Yukimura seems to like) are embarrassing. Oh, they “win” every game--but only because Yukimura is running around like a determined retriever, smacking each ball with unbridled enthusiasm and occasionally calling, “Sorry!” after he steps on Niou’s toes.

 

So a new strategy is in order.

 

“The yellow balls are _good_ ,” Niou says firmly, tossing one into the air and catching it. “I will be hitting those to your side of the court. The _red_ balls,” he warns, pulling one out with a gloved hand, “contain an unpleasant surprise. I will be hitting those to _my_ side of the court. Bearing in mind that yes, I’m sure you can hit all the balls, do you think you can get _just_ the yellow balls?”

 

There's a switch in Yukimura's mind that kind of _twitches_ at the thought of just hitting _some_ balls. 

 

"I…yes." Some annoyed part of him doesn't see the point. The _game_ is hit all the damned balls. That's why doubles is no good; trusting someone else to be just as good as he is at hitting all the damned balls never really works out well, especially when he _knows_ he can hit them and why take a chance? "I'm not sure this is really necessary, Niou." 

 

“It’s necessary if you want me to play doubles with you,” Niou says with all the patience that someone trying to play doubles with Yukimura Seiichi could possibly possess. “Because if you don’t start letting me play, I’m literally just going to put a cardboard cutout of me on the court and watch them disqualify you.” He fires the first ball, a yellow, followed immediately by a red.

 

"I let you play just fine!" Yukimura huffily shoots back, diving after the first yellow ball with ease--and he _swears_ that his brain briefly tells him _nope, it's red, be good,_ but--

 

It _sticks_ to his racquet, and trying to pry the thing off of his strings is met with horrified disgust. " _Niou!!_ You could have _warned_ me a bit more!"

 

“Figured you wouldn’t hit the red ones.” Niou shrugs, and raises an eyebrow. “Don’t hit the red ones, Boss. There’s your warning. They’re all a little, uh, different.” They aren’t, but maybe that will keep Yukimura on his toes enough to actually _try_.

 

Yukimura gives him a decidedly put out stare before stalking off the court to grab another, non-sticky racquet. " _Gross_. What do the others do, puke on me or something?! It's not like I'm trying to hit them, it's reflex!"

 

“Your reflex sucks, get a new one.” Niou loads up a few more balls (very carefully), and starts lobbing them over in the machine. “You wanna be the kind of tennis player who plays on reflex, or on reflex, practice, and intelligence?”

 

The stare Yukimura has time to fix upon him before _not_ hitting that next red ball is a very affronted one. "How dare you. Don't insult my natural talent, _I'm_ the best and I--"

 

Shit, that's a yellow one. "And I am _so_ good at this _stupid_ little training exercise that you're making me do!"

 

“Really?” Three red balls in a row, one yellow, and five more red, just to keep him on his toes. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why I’m making you do this in the first place.”

 

Yukimura, by this point, is decidedly twitchy, and his racquet _might_ be constantly spinning in his hand. "Because I hate doubles and--uggghhhh, _Niou_ , you can't expect me not to hit balls for that long, give me a damn yellow one or I'm going to go insane!"

 

“And our opponents are going to know that,” Niou says, raising an eyebrow. “And they’re going to know that you’re better at tennis than me, because everyone knows how good you are, and they’re going to hit them to me--and if you’re always covering for me, they’ll fuck us up. Imagine if you play with someone who’s _really_ shitty, then you’ll _never_ get to hit a ball.”

 

"But--" Yukimura twitches again, one toe slowly grinding down into the concrete. "But you're not bad. I know you're good, or I wouldn't play with you. That's not the problem, it's just--listen, I really like hitting balls, that's kind of why I moved to England to do it even more."

 

“Are you a tennis player, or are you a goddamn retriever?” Niou asks, rolling his eyes as he loads in a few more yellow balls mixed in with a few red. “You _asked_ me to play doubles, and you’re messing it up. You want me to just stand on the court and let you play singles?”

 

"If I was a retriever, I'd be good at it," Yukimura crossly mutters underneath his breath, and dives after the yellow balls with gusto. It takes _effort_ to hold still and not chase after those red ones, and he feels every muscle twitch when they skirt past him. "I _want_ a doubles partner that can work around me. I know I'm one-track minded, I get that." 

 

“Cool. Good to know that you’re like, really good with accepting your own weaknesses,” Niou calls, and loads up eight red balls in a row out of spite.

 

 _"Niou!"_ What part of this being _torture_ does he not understand?! 

 

Niou flips off the machine, and leans back against it. “Wanna be done?” he asks. “I’m not gonna bother if you don’t want to get better at doubles. Seriously, I’ll stand on the side of the court. Just don’t ask me to play with you then just step on me and tell me I’m in the way, that’s less cool.”

 

"I don't… _ugh."_

 

Yukimura huffs, raking his hair out of his face and stuffing a hand into his pocket to fish out a hair clip. Too long to be entirely tamed by his headband, not long enough for ponytails…this _sucks_. "I want to get better at it," he says, exasperated. "It's just hard to focus sometimes. I've got this, just put up with me a little longer, okay?"

 

“As long as you want,” Niou says easily. “You want to keep going with the machine, or do you want to try playing together again? I’m here in England for _you_ , Boss.”

 

Ah, that gives him headaches. "You could stay forever, that would be good," Yukimura glumly says. "Just the machine for now, I guess." 

 

Niou closes his eyes and loads up twenty more balls. “Even I don’t know what order they’re in,” he calls, and flips the machine back on. “But, you know, I believe in you and stuff!”

 

Yukimura stares him down until the first ball makes its way out. 

 

He considers himself _quite_ capable until there's a lag in the machine, and the last ball is another red one, and it takes some serious self-control to stop from hitting it. "I hate this!" he bemoans, tentatively kicking at one of the red balls with his shoe. Still sticky. _Gross_. "I've got it though. Not a single red ball, _see_ , I'm good." 

 

“You did great!” Niou flips the machine off, and tosses over a packaged wet wipe. “That gets rid of the stickiness pretty well, I think. Hey, you wanna get out of here and get some food? Making those balls sticky really took it out of me, and you do _not_ want to know how.”

 

"Um." Yukimura opens his mouth to ask, then thinks the better of it. "Yeah, we can eat, I guess," he mutters, fishing out his phone and frowning when none of his text messages have been returned. Ah, well. Time differences. "So…does Yagyuu know you're over here and everything?" 

 

“He, uh, does _now_ ,” Niou says cheerfully. “I texted him last night. He’ll cover for me. Why, you wanna steal me away? I might get bored.” Niou bored is not something that most people want to deal with on any given day, he’s learned, and uses to his advantage a hell of a lot of the time. “Show me around London and stuff.”

 

"Does he answer you in an acceptable time frame?" Yukimura dryly asks, scrubbing at the strings of his other racquet with the wet wipe before he's comfortable with putting it away. "I don't want to steal you, you're too much work. I just want to know who has a better boyfriend." 

 

“He answers whenever. I’m not sure it’s because he’s a great boyfriend,” Niou feels compelled to point out, draping himself over the ball machine. “I’m pretty sure he’s just anal about having unanswered text messages. Also, he knows how to use a phone, and I’m pretty sure you’re dating a time traveler.”

 

Yukimura makes a face. "But I taught him how to. Several times! _Ugh_ , how can he be _so smart_ and not get the most basic of things…like how _slow_ the mail from Japan to London is! This is why he needs to just learn how to scan his calligraphy or take good pictures of it or something instead of trying to mail it to me!" 

 

“Uh huh.” Sometimes when Yukimura feels the need to yell excessively about Sanada, Niou imagines music. It’s less rude than headphones, and a hell of a lot more creative, probably. “Do you guys, like, do the phone sex thing? It’s kind of the best.”

 

"Well…like…sometimes." Just the word _sex_ isn't supposed to put him on edge like that, is it? Probably not. Damn it. "But whenever I call, it's rarely a good time, so…"

 

“That sucks.” Niou slings an arm around Yukimura’s shoulders, squeezing tight. “At least you don’t have to deal with his hassling about eating breakfast and shit, right? Seriously, if you need porn, I can hook you up, good stuff or weird stuff, you know I have it.”

 

"He always texts me or calls me about breakfast," Yukimura darkly informs him. "At around 5am here. And I don't _want_ porn, I want to get _laid_. _"_ Saying it makes it all that much more horrifyingly real that he hasn't as much as _seen_ a dick that wasn't his own in months, and Yukimura shudders a little, ducking out from underneath Niou's arm to grab his tennis bag. "Whatever. Let's just go eat." 

 

The idea of finding out what people eat in England is enough to make Niou sit up and take notice, and he trots happily along Yukimura’s side, scoping out alleys and oh, _yes_ , there are enough stray cats to make the trip worthwhile. “Everyone is dressed so awesome here,” he says. “Wish I brought clothes that were more fun. Hey, can we go shopping?”

 

Yukimura gives him a surprised glance. " _You_ want to go shopping with me? You, Niou Masaharu, in _London_ , want to go shopping with _me_." 

 

“Yeah, why not?” Niou lengthens his stride, shaking out his rattail. “No one is turning to look when they see my hair, it’s like I’m invisible. Puri.”

 

"Right. Clarify where and how you want to go shopping, and I'll consider it. No fireworks." 

 

Niou lets out a huff. “Crushing my dreams before we start, real cute,” he mutters. “Fine, I dunno, wherever you want. You can drag me to the place with the plaid if you have to, I’m just feeling...I dunno, colors.”

 

Immediately, Yukimura's eyes light up. "I know places," he firmly says, and he grabs Niou's hand, promptly hauling him in the opposite direction. "Apartment and shower first, _then_ shopping and I'll definitely feed you along the way."

 

“Food,” Niou whines, stumbling along after him. At least _Yagyuu_ feeds him, the big idiot.

 

"Get it together, start eating the granola bars I bring along!"

 

“But they taste like _oats_ , do you think I’m a _horse_?”

 

"What the hell else would they taste like? They're _granola!!_ " 

 

“They could taste _more_ like meat.”

 

" _Ugh_. You can't live on meat alone, you're going to die because of that some day!"

 

“Not a chance, I’m going to die of something _way_ more interesting.”

 

Grabbing Niou by the collar of his shirt and dragging him along is a far more viable plan than continuing to argue with him. "Learn to eat granola during the day or go hungry. Those are your options." 

 

“You know, I think I forgot something back in Japan, I’ll see you later--”

 

Yukimura's grip is vice-tight, and his smile deadly. "You're going to look soooo good when you finally do go back home. Nice and lean and with even more muscles for your boyfriend, and very well-dressed!" 

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Niou protests, tugging feebly on Yukimura’s sleeve. “I said I’d help you work on your doubles game, this sounds like way too much work, Boss, be _reasonable_ , Mouri doesn’t make me do that much, I’m not used to it, I’m not as robust as everyone thinks I am--”

 

"You used to practice more hours out of the day than I did, don't lie." Tossing Niou into his apartment is easy enough, and shedding his clothes on his way to the shower is, too. "You're _very_ robust, I know _all_ about it." 

 

“Is this supposed to be turning me on?” Niou asks mildly, loosening his own collar. “I mean, if you want to be bossy and naked, that’s fine with me, but don’t expect me not to do anything about it.”

 

The problem lies in the fact that Yukimura actually considers it, even if for a brief moment. "I'm just taking a shower, you weirdo. I'll be quick, don't worry." 

 

**To: Gen**

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: You COULD be here right now**

**and I would climb you like a tree.**

 

Niou flops back on the sad, mediocre sofa. “Sure, sure. Just leave me in a state of sexual frustration and jetlag.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**From:** **真田源一郎**

**Subject: Good Morning**

**I Hope you are feeling well from your text. If you call me right now I have one hour before i leave for school. I can try the sex Talk on the phone again if i didn’t mess it up too badly last time.**

 

Yukimura bites his lip, and turns on the shower. 

 

**To: Gen**

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: Re: Good Morning**

**You didn't mess it up last time** ❤ **I'm heading out right now but later. Call me when you get out of school?**

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**From:** **真田源一郎**

**Subject: Later**

**You are always asleep when I get out of school. Always. I will try anyway. How do I make a heart.**

 

**To: Gen**

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: So wake me up!!**

**don't worry about it, the heart is understood. have a good day, Gen.**

 

There is no way for the shower to be hot enough right now. 

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**From:** **真田源一郎**

**Subject: Tonight**

**You say you won’t mind but you yell and then hang up. Heart.**

 

“Booossss, I can hear you texting, you’re gonna waste all the hot and I’m sweaty too.”

 

"Shut up!" Yukimura tosses his phone away, and huffs as he jumps underneath the water, resisting the urge to bang his head repeatedly into the wall. "I'm turning down phone sex for you!"

 

“What the hell? Who asked you to? You’re sexually frustrated, get that samurai dick!”

 

"You're the one that wanted food! I'm _trying_ to be a good host and it's kind of weird to know that you'd be hearing all of it, not gonna lie!"

 

“You’re making up excuses! I’ve been eating your weird mints for like, ten minutes now and I have headphones!”

 

"Ugh, _whatever_." Yukimura stalks out of the shower after another moment of soaking, wraps himself up in a towel, and strides off into his bedroom. "It's not like it's ever satisfying, anyway. It just reminds me that he's not _here_. Now go take your shower and let's _eat_ , I'm horny and hungry now."

 

“Nobody loves a pissy bitch,” Niou says cheerfully, and takes a shower in record time, trying not to fall asleep. It’s not easy when his usual schedule includes a shower right before sleep, and when his body is trying to shut down at the most random times while he’s over here. England is weird, and clearly makes him sleepy.

 

Ten minutes later, he’s dressed again, hissing at his hair in the mirror until it behaves. “I just remembered my roots are gonna grow out,” he complains. “Yagyuu isn’t around to touch them up for me, shit.”

 

"You _could_ let me do them for you," Yukimura huffs, reaching over to tug on his rat tail. "Considering I know most of your hair secrets now, _except_ the secret to the crunch." 

 

Niou makes a face. “If I have to. Not sure they’ll have my good dye here, though. Ugh, I didn’t think this trip through.”

 

"You're not allowed to leave, though." Yukimura latches onto Niou's waist, butting his face into his shoulder from behind. "I take it back, I'm definitely stealing you and keeping you, even if you eat too much meat."

 

“And you yell at me for helping you play doubles,” Niou adds mildly. “And tell me I’m keeping you from phone sex, and waste the hot water.”

 

"I'll adjust. I'll be good. Listen, I'm cute, you know you like staying here with me." 

 

Niou turns around, and musses Yukimura’s hair, tugging him into a hug. “I’m staying,” he says, and tugs on a long lock around his face. “Just don’t forget that I’m not your boyfriend, I don’t get sex for putting up with extra stuff.”

 

Yukimura heaves a long sigh, and flops his head against Niou's chest. "Yeah. That _would_ make it easier, wouldn't it? I guess I better prepare myself for the fact that you aren't gonna stay here that long; _you_ can't exist without sex." 

 

“We’d be shitty boyfriends, if that helps.” Not that Niou hasn’t considered it. Not that he hasn’t considered doing more than considering it.

 

"We really would be shitty boyfriends." Somedays, Yukimura already feels like a shitty boyfriend, though. He's the one that refused to go back up on that mountain and stay there with Sanada because he just _had_ to go over to England and play tennis and leave everyone, especially Sanada, behind…

 

…and Niou smells nice and feels nice and it's a stupid idea that's been in his head for awhile and it's always been so easy to flirt with him, but--

 

"…Dinner," Yukimura slowly exhales, prying himself away. "Right."

 

Niou is pretty good at hearing in someone’s voice when they’re into him, and this is the closest Yukimura has ever gotten. Damn, it makes him wish this could just be _fun_ , could be easy and cute and not a big deal, they would have a great time rolling around and being cute...

 

If it weren’t for Yagyuu and Sanada, the big dumb losers that they’re sort of attached to. Yagyuu would probably be cool about it, but...

 

“Dinner’s awesome,” he says lamely, because it’s a lot better than anything else coming into his head to say right now.

 

~

 

“Kunimitsu!”

 

Atobe runs up the staircase into the distressingly small apartment hallway, rapping firmly on the door. “Kunimitsu,” he repeats once he gets actually to the apartment, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. There’s only so long he can guarantee that his driver will actually stay outside these days, and he needs to make the most of every second. “Fucking hell, the book will be there _tomorrow_ , open the damn door!”

 

The cave has grown, which is part of the problem.

 

It's not _easy_ to extricate himself from the depths of his cave. It's also not entirely easy to hear the initial knock on his door through the books insulating every wall of his apartment. Needless to say, Tezuka makes it to the door in what he believes is a respectable amount of time, his eyebrows raising upon seeing Atobe _bounce_. "This book," he deadpans, "was due back to the library three weeks ago. Technically, it is already defying time constraints."

 

Atobe stares for a moment, then very deliberately pulls out a £100 note and places it in the book as a marker. “For the fines, and your patience,” he says, and pushes past Tezuka, shutting the door behind him...and stopping dead two feet inside as he struggles to make it through the stacks. “How on earth do you manage to navigate this place?” he asks, dismayed. “I can barely squeeze through--no jokes, we both know your shoulders are even broader.”

 

"I'm rather fond of small places." Tezuka starts to hand the money back, then gives up, figuring it does make a good bookmark. It's easy enough for him to make it to his bedroom again, because _he_ knows the best way to maneuver, unlike someone that he knows with squishy thighs. He takes a moment to clear off the end of the bed. "Well? You obviously needed to make an announcement, go on."

 

Atobe immediately climbs onto the bed, dragging Tezuka up there as well. He doesn’t bother with seiza for a second--he’s not in Japan, he doesn’t have to pretend like it isn’t _dreadfully_ uncomfortable--and splays out. “If I make you guess, you’ll be deliberately obtuse in an attempt to obfuscate my happiness, so I’ll just tell you. Father says I can play doubles with you!”

 

Tezuka blinks, genuinely surprised. "That's not what I thought you were going to say," he admits, though he's not sure what _else_ would make Atobe pleased enough to bounce in front of his door (which is nice to think about, the more he considers it). "But I'm glad." It's definitely something akin to relief that makes him sink down into the bed and loosely drape an arm over Atobe's hip. "My other options was attempting to beg Oishi to come over here, which was probably not going to happen." 

 

“I’m going to ignore the slight of the implication that Oishi Shuuichirou could be any sort of replacement for me,” Atobe says graciously, “and instead focus on the bit where you said it was good news.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m limited to one professional tournament per fiscal quarter, with the option to add one tournament for charity each fiscal quarter. Is that good enough? I’m not sure how much _doubles_ you even want to play, I just know that sometimes they force you.”

 

"They do. The answer is that I wish I could ignore them, but…" Tezuka shrugs, and allows himself a moment of weariness by letting his head flop down onto a pillow. "I have, apparently, already made myself out to be somewhat distasteful. Refusing to play any doubles tournaments would make that worse. Who knew." 

 

Tezuka is down. Apparently, that signals something in Atobe, and he immediately spoons up--the big spoon, for once--and nuzzles into Tezuka’s neck. “You went to that party last night, right? You should have some good news, I know Merkendale was there, he’s looking for new talent.”

 

"I left before I even got into the door." It's a rare day that Tezuka will admit to crippling bouts of anxiety, but, well--that was a moment of it. Irritated with even recalling last night, Tezuka slides a hand up underneath his glasses, rubbing over his eyes. "I'm _not_ good at marketing myself. This is nothing new. It shouldn't need to be such a necessary thing when I'm polite enough and can win." 

 

“It’s fine.” It’s not, exactly, because Tezuka is only shooting himself in the foot, but Atobe has tried to come to the conclusion that he can only help those who help themselves. “If you’re truly sick of dealing with it, you know I can just have Father sponsor you, he’d be thrilled to do it, he knows what a talent you are.”

 

"I could never accept that, though." The idea nearly makes Tezuka shudder. "I don't want my career to be bought like that. It's not fair, and it's not earned." 

 

“But he sponsors athletes all the _time_ ,” Atobe points out, trying not to sound too belligerent. “It isn’t as if you don’t have the skills, you just need a boost, that’s what sponsors like him are for. Or let me do it, you know I believe in your talent and drive.”

 

Tezuka twists around to stare at him. "And then I'm the ass that has his boyfriend pay for everything." 

 

“You’re already the ass that beat the kid with cancer,” Atobe points out, nudging Tezuka’s shoulder. “And in all fairness, everyone is going to believe that you’re having me pay for everything, whether you are or not. It shouldn’t be a matter of public opinion.”

 

"But _I_ know that isn't true." Tezuka's head flops back down, and he frowns. "If I can't do this on my own, then I'm not entirely sure I should be wasting anyone's time," he finally settles upon. "Taking your money is the easy way to get where I want for now, yes, but it's not exactly something I can do forever."

 

“Kunimitsu, it’s not as if I’d be buying you a title,” Atobe points out, tired of this conversation (the same one, over and over) already. “It’s still up to you to win. You _do_ know that there’s no difference between taking my money and winning, and fluttering your eyelashes at a stranger for his money, right?”

 

"But I don't flutter my eyelashes at strangers for money." 

 

“Incorrect. You _fail_ at fluttering your eyelashes at strangers for money. There is most certainly a difference.”

 

"I've never tried to flutter my eyelashes at them. Maybe that's the problem. I'm fairly certain that I don't want to do that, though. That has absolutely nothing to do with tennis." 

 

Atobe sighs, and wraps his arms around Tezuka quite firmly. “The world is never allowed to touch you. You know that, right? You are quite thoroughly mine.”

 

"Right," Tezuka says, blinking, and unsure of why they are on this topic now, of all times. "What does _that_ have to do with tennis?" 

 

“Oh, must we continue to speak of tennis even now?” Atobe bites Tezuka’s shoulder softly through his shirt. “Fine, then let’s talk about how well we’re going to dominate the competition in that doubles tournament you were complaining about.”

 

That's better news, at least, and it's somewhat less stressful to think about. "That's a given," he quietly agrees, shutting his eyes. "I seriously doubt Yukimura can pull it together before then." 

 

“Kunimitsu, are you going to sleep?” Atobe demands. “Don’t you want to go down to the courts and practice doubles? I want to _ruin_ them and make them kneel.”

 

"I'm not going to sleep. I'm relaxing. And you are not allowed to cackle madly and make poses on the court when we play for longer than 45 seconds." 

 

Atobe frowns, and considers that ultimatum. “I’ll give you the cackling, but I’m keeping the poses. They’re very cool.”

 

Tezuka tilts his head back, eyebrows raised. "It's not cool when you can't keep your jersey on. You know that." 

 

“It’s your damn brat that pointed that out to everyone.” Sulk incoming. Sulk imminent. “I’ll take the jersey off, _fine_. Is there anything else about my glorious aesthetic that you feel determined to drag through the mud?”

 

"No. And I don't mind it if your jersey falls off of your shoulders, anyway." Tezuka turns in Atobe's arms completely, settling both an arm and a leg off over him. "You'll be playing doubles with me, and we'll win so easily that no one's going to notice if that happens the first place."

 

Atobe’s eyes shine. It is _so_ nice when Tezuka properly appreciates him, and god, if that doesn’t make him want to worship Tezuka just a bit...

 

He buries his face in Tezuka’s hair, pulling him close with broad, warm hands. “Everyone will be dumbfounded,” he agrees, snuggling firmly closer. “Ahn, Kunimitsu, read to me? Just for a minute?” He lays his head on Tezuka’s chest, ready to feel the vibrations, something he enjoys more than he ever wants to admit.

 

Tezuka, as accommodating as ever, calmly reaches over for the book closest to his bedside and flips it open. "'Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you.' His voice has changed. He's surprised, I think, and he sounds so...warm--seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I'm suddenly conscious that Katherine Kavanagh is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny." Horrible romance novels have taught Tezuka one thing, and it's that women are even more prone to hiding from people than he is. 

 

…which isn't such a bad thing, when he has Atobe around. 


	11. Yanagi, Inui, and Kirihara; Kaidou, Inui, and Zaizen

 

The tournament should be a breeze.

 

That's the mindset that Kirihara firmly adheres to nowadays, even if it's with, uh, some trepidation. He's gotten kinda nervous when it comes to managing Rikkai's tennis team, but when he's on his own time--he's _got this_. He has more than enough faith in his own ability. There's no way in hell that he can lose. 

 

Signing up for the U-17 division is something that he hasn't done in awhile in Kanagawa. With Yukimura-buchou not here, however, it's something that always seems less…what's the word…yeah, daunting. Even if there are high schoolers to play against, it's not the same, because he _knows_ Sanada isn't there (thank god). 

 

In fact, there's no one in the bracket that he knows--except for one person. 

 

"Kirihara," Inui greets with that awful smirk of his in the semifinals, and Kirihara tells himself to keep it together. He doesn't need to punch anyone in the face. _That_ gets him disqualified. "I hope you've been doing well." 

 

Kirihara tries not to let his lip curl. "Yeah, whatever. Let's just play the match," he mutters, shoving his hand forward to _try_ and be sportsman like. He doesn't like that Inui is still slightly taller than him. He doesn't like that at _all_. 

 

Inui just keeps smirking, pushes his glasses up, shakes his hand--and straightens his collar when he walks away, revealing an enormous hickey. 

 

 _That_ was on purpose. 

 

Kirihara's going to kill him. 

 

He might go overboard in the match, but he sees red for the first time in a long while. Thinking about it-- _imagining_ Yanagi, just one school building over, leaving those kinds of bites on this piece of shit's neck when it could be _him_ \--

 

"You," he snarls underneath his breath when he hits another serve, and Inui might have a broken nose, serves him right, "are _not_ allowed to run away." 

 

"Game and match, Kirihara! 6 games to 0!"  

 

 _Good._ That will _start_ as revenge.

 

Yanagi dislikes being called to the hospital. It’s one thing if it’s for some use of his skills; it isn’t as though he isn’t able to help out nearly every profession on occasion, and he’s enjoyed going along with Yagyuu to help his father’s books in the past. This, however, is different.

 

Yanagi finds that most official buildings let him in, as long as he walks firmly and with purpose. Otherwise, they tend to think he is far too young to be anywhere interesting, and he is relegated to a waiting area. In this case, having come directly from school in his uniform is a blessing, as it looks enough like a suit for him to gain immediate entrance. 

 

(He might also be carrying a clipboard and looking busy, just in case. It helps.)

 

It is with this that no one questions Yanagi Renji as he walks into a restricted section of the hospital, briskly opening and closing the door of a patient, and sitting at his bedside. “Sadaharu,” he says quietly, not wanting to wake the patient if he is indeed sleeping. “Yanagi Renji is here.” 

 

Inui doesn’t look good. Enormous bruises are purpling on his face and neck (after he and Akuto had made such a masterpiece out of it, what a shame), and there are bandages in far too many places, including across his nose. Various tubes and monitors hint at other damage as well, and Yanagi tries to keep the anger to a dull boil in the pit of his stomach until he knows the full story.

 

It's a relief to see Yanagi, and better still is that his voice isn't jarring, or high pitched and cackling. Inui sucks in a slow, careful breath, and makes an outstanding effort at not wincing. He succeeds. Chance that Yanagi notices…100%. Less success there.

 

"Your hell beast has gotten worse." Better to just get this conversation out of the way, even though his throat hurts, too. "And here I thought I was being _subtle_." 

 

“Chance that Akaya noticed the marks on your neck,” Yanagi says with a pointed look down at all of the bruises clustered there, “98 percent.” He carefully extends his hand, laying it palm-up on the side of the bed, offering support if it is desired. “What have they said about your condition, Doctor?”

 

Inui sighs. Well. He thinks about it. Mostly, he sort of wheezes and slides his hand over, his fingers curling into the palm of Yanagi's hand. "Another broken nose, Professor," he offers up. "Among a dozen other highly bruised areas. Ah, well. I suppose I deserved it," Inui ruefully adds. "I _did_ make it into something of a display…you should really lock him up, he's _not_ safe."

 

Yanagi’s grip is gentle on Inui’s, one of the few times that his gentleness has been offered or appreciated. “The first time your nose broke, your looks didn’t suffer. I doubt they will this time. What possessed you to enter a tournament without looking at the data?”

 

"I _looked_ ," Inui protests, only marginally offended. "I didn't, however, expect him to be still so…violently attached to you. The data you informed _me_ of was obviously incorrect."

 

Yanagi doesn’t frown. He blinks slightly, although Inui is one of only two people in the world who would be able to see that motion for what it is. “My data must have been corrupted by my proximity to the situation. Akuto nii-chan’s conclusions about Akaya’s attachment to Yukimura Kaede must have been equally incorrect.”

 

Inui rolls his eyes, then regrets it, because somehow, they hurt even in his skull. "All I am recalling now is the last time I showed up at your house when he was there, and how he ended up breaking my nose the _first_ time," he flatly points out. "I suppose we all should have known better, and that he would be intensely jealous when presented with factual evidence that you are involved with other people." More worrisome, immediately--"You're going to need to do something about this, Renji, because _Akuto_ is not as…sturdy."

 

“I had hoped that in a neutral situation, Akaya’s destructive tendencies would have mellowed, or at least been subsumed. Obviously,” Yanagi says, a slight bite to the tone because he has to _say it again_ , “my data was incorrect. I will be dealing with this tonight.” Unfortunately, he can’t deal with it the same way he had last time, which was by letting Kirihara nail him through the wall. What a regrettable happenstance.

 

But the thought of Kirihara being turned loose on Akuto is a sobering one. It’s far too easy to imagine Kirihara laughing in Devil Mode, sending balls or rocks or fists against those clever eyes to shatter his wire-rimmed glasses, and Yanagi’s jaw clenches imperceptibly. “I will not allow his tantrums to destroy what we’ve built, as long as you make me the same promise, Sadaharu.”

 

Yanagi is, among many other things, at least always one to trust on making good on promises. Inui isn't exactly fond of the idea of Yanagi 'handling' that evil devil child, but if anyone can… "Obviously, Renji," he exhales, slowly squeezing Yanagi's hand. Daring to mention _don't you even think of bringing him into all of what we have_ is a bad, bad idea, and so Inui bites his tongue, even if he's still…marginally concerned. There's always about a 50% chance that Yanagi will go easy on Kirihara, after all.

 

“There is approximately a fifty percent chance that Yanagi Renji will go easy on Kirihara Akaya,” Yanagi says quietly, “is...what you would like to say, Sadaharu. Allow me to assuage your doubts.” 

 

Gently, he reaches out and brushes a delicate fingertip over one purple bruise, left over a place Yanagi very well remembers leaving a love bite the night before. “I am quite incensed,” he says softly, with a fire behind the words.

 

Inui laughs, even though he can feel every jarring ache from his bruised ribs. "Good," he simply says, reaching out and grabbing at Yanagi's hand again to give it another squeeze. "I would love to watch you when you go after him. There's always a 100% chance that you're beautiful when you're angry." _I_ , Inui smugly congratulates himself, _am literally the smoothest upon delivery._

 

Yanagi raises his eyebrows, and squeezes back, leaning down to brush his lips over a non-scraped knuckle. “That was magnificently smooth, Sadaharu, but your math is quite incorrect. I will inform you of the correct data upon my return. Can you rest? There is only a 5 percent chance that you will heal without proper rest, and only a 2 percent chance that you will recover enough to leave the hospital before Akuto nii-chan finds you here.”

 

"My math is very correct," Inui mutters, not quite huffing yet, but only because Yanagi's lips are just as soft as the rest of him. Rude. "I'll rest, there's no need for you to worry about that. The last thing that I want is for Akuto to end up becoming…involved." 

 

“I believe that there is approximately a 100 percent chance that he is already involved in every way that matters.” Yanagi stands, and squeezes Inui’s hand slightly before turning to leave, bowing at the door. “Please forgive the intrusion.” 

 

And then there’s nothing for it but to make his way to Kirihara’s house. At least his elder sister is a delight, and always points him in the right direction--notably, right to Kirihara’s room, and he wastes no time in grabbing him by the shirt collar and throwing him against the wall. “Hello, Akaya.”

 

There's little to do but yelp when he doesn't even have a second's notice before Yanagi barges into his room, and Akaya finds himself plastered against the wall, blinking rapidly and unsure if he should be turned on or freaked out or, uhhh…who knows? "H-hi, Yanagi-sempai. Um," he attempts, twisting a hand back to rub at the back of his head, "you look kind of mad."

 

“I’ve just been to the hospital.” Yanagi’s voice stays confrontational, and he grips Kirihara’s shirt by the collar, just to force him down to the ground. “You aren’t apologizing yet.”

 

 _Oh._ It's about _that._ Huh.

 

He'd expected Yanagi to be a bit more…thrilled. The _last time_ he'd punched Inui in the face, that had ended pretty well. "I don't get why I should!" he protests, grabbing at Yanagi's wrist and holding tight as he wobbles, dropping only onto one knee. "I won! He _deserved_ to lose, too, and he was a total jerk about--" Kirihara pauses, his face flushing hot. "You're sleeping with him again, you _said_ you weren't before!"

 

“I wasn’t before.” Yanagi looks down, entirely unperturbed except for the rising flush of displeasure that he’s certain most people call anger. “I was quite firm with you that the two of us would _not_ be a couple while you were still in middle school and I am attending high school. You seem to have forgotten what that means.”

 

"I thought that meant…" Kirihara trails off in frustration, and tightens his grip as he lurches back up to both of his feet. "I don't know what I thought! I mean--listen, I _like_ Kaede-kun and everything, but it's not the same! We don't do the same stuff and she's _not_ like you, Yanagi-sempai, she's _not."_ His shoulders sag as he scowls. "It sounds like to me like you just wanted to be with that _stupid_ glasses guy again. He's not any good, you know, I'm _so_ much better than him. Like, at everything. Except math, but _you're_ good at math, so who cares?"

 

“You are acting like the child you are.” Yanagi’s voice is cold, and he makes no effort to warm it for Kirihara’s sad, frustrated eyes. “Only a child would assume that he knows everything about why people are attracted to each other. The chance that Kaede is equally sick of you only caring about what you’re getting out of the relationship is higher than you want it to be.”

 

"Well, then, fine!" 

 

Yanagi isn't as easy to shove around when he's not willing, and that's even more frustrating. Grabbing at the front of his shirt makes Kirihara feel a little bit better, but not much. It's definitely not the same as being able to toss Yanagi back into a wall and _kiss him_. "I'll do the same thing to him in another match, I will," he vows, his own voice dropping. "So long as he shows up and it's obvious that you two are _together."_

 

“Three.” 

 

Yanagi’s voice doesn’t change in the slightest, and he hardly opens his eyes. “Thank you for making it entirely obvious why I was foolish to consider that you might be mature enough to be a part of it.” He moves fast, knocking Kirihara’s hand away, turning swiftly to the side to hit him behind one knee, sending him down again before Kirihara even has his bearings back. “If you want to act like a disobedient child, I _will_ treat you like one, Akaya.”

 

Kirihara's mouth opens in protest, but there's little more than a squawk that escapes when he just flops down to his knees and blinks up dumbly for a moment. "I…three?" he echoes, not entirely sure how he'd gotten that number wrong. "W-wait, what the hell, Yanagi-sempai? How-- _who?_ "

 

“As you are not one of those three,” Yanagi says, folding his arms and staring down at Kirihara, “it doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

 

"Of course it matters to me!" Kirihara huffs, his hands on his knees as he scowls up. "You're probably dating someone really shitty! Why can't we still date? I'll be good, I promise I'll be good." 

 

“You,” Yanagi says firmly, “are not being respectful of my opinions or my choices. If you think I would make ‘really shitty’ choices of partners, does that mean you think you’re a ‘really shitty’ boyfriend?” Circular logic is almost too easy to use on Kirihara.

 

"I--no! That's not what I meant! That's not _fair_ , Yanagi-sempai, you said yourself that that weird Inui guy was an idiot!" Kirihara complains, almost lurching up to his feet again, only to fear the act of being hit again and so he just flops right back down. "I just don't _get it._ I mean, sure, if you aren't gonna date me, you could date someone else that's just as cool, but not _him._ You didn't even _tell me!_ " 

 

Yanagi turns, hands at his sides now as he looks down at Kirihara. “I couldn’t trust you.” He knows the words have a bite. “This is how you behave. Akaya, if you want me to ever entertain the idea of accepting you again, you must never attack anyone that I choose to date.” Of course, he’s sure that Kirihara was splendid on the court, and rather wishes he could have seen it--but Inui is right. Akuto is far less durable, and both of them must be protected.

 

"But he rubbed it in my face, what was I supposed to do?" Kirihara mutters, slinking down another inch and frowning hard. "If he's being a total jerk, then why should I have to be nice?"

 

“You don’t have to be nice. You have to control yourself. That’s part of becoming a worthy human being.” Yanagi checks his watch, and deliberately says, “I need to go. Sadaharu will be getting out of the hospital soon, and I want to walk him home.”

 

Just hearing that is enough to make Kirihara briefly see red, and he swallows hard, curling his hands into fists against his thighs. "…It's not fair," he repeats, struggling to keep his voice level. "Even if you did want to date me again--you'd still be with those other two guys, right? I don't like either of them, I just like you."

 

 _There is a fifty percent chance that you will be too nice,_ Yanagi thinks ruefully, and lays a hand on emphatically wavy hair, stroking softly. “Everything changes, Akaya. I didn’t break up with you. We are simply taking a convenient break, and allowing both of us to pursue other interests. Data doesn’t lie, but it changes frequently.”

 

"But my other interests aren't good, and neither are yours," Kirihara immediately complains, butting his head up into Yanagi's hand, and just barely restraining himself from grabbing and touching him. "Kaede-kun's _so_ bossy. Like, way worse than Yukimura-buchou ever was! And I just like you a lot and I didn't ever stop liking you a lot."

 

“Then perhaps you should focus on restoring Rikkai to its former glory instead of satisfying those urges.” Yanagi pets him gently, knowing he’s too soft. “Everyone loves a winner, Akaya. Myself included. I just happen to be sufficiently entertained for the moment.”

 

Not that Akaya was ever not _entertaining_. Yanagi wouldn’t say it, but the best sex of his life and the most charming dates were with Akaya--and he doesn’t need to say it, because Inui and Akuto can _tell_. They are, however, extremely good at distracting, enchanting, and entertaining him themselves. “I will not change my mind, Akaya. We can discuss it next year.”

 

Kirihara's lower lip trembles, and he lurches up, grabbing at Yanagi's hand as he finally dares to climb to his feet. "But I don't _want_ to wait until next year," he protests. "What if I promise to be _really_ good?"

 

This is _not_ as easy as Yanagi wants it to be. It would be much easier if he could just think about the facts and logic of the situation, return to the ones who understand him best, and forget about how fiercely Akaya clearly still loves him. “Akaya,” he says, and he curses himself for the gentleness in his own voice, “you made a promise to Seiichi. Do you think that you’d be able to be the Captain of Rikkai if you were always coming to the high school to see me? Think, and give me an honest answer.”

 

 _The probability of an affair with Akaya being discovered by Sadaharu and Akuto is 96 percent,_ he thinks gloomily. _The probability of such a discovery ending badly is 99.98 percent. That is not my preferred margin of error._

 

"It's not like I'm gonna give up my promise to Yukimura-buchou or anything!" Kirihara adamantly huffs, his fingers squeezing tighter. "I want Rikkai to be number one, and we're gonna be! I'll just…" Ugh, he hates this, but for Yanagi, he'll _do it_ , he _will._ "It's not like I'm gonna give up _tennis_ to see you," he mumbles. "I'll just stop going to the arcade and stuff like that. I've got this."

 

“I have no doubt of that, Akaya,” Yanagi says, though his doubts hover somewhere around 12 percent. “But I am also busy, and the disconnect in our schedules is, of course, why I proposed our temporary separation in the first place. I also,” he continues, voice frosting over again, “don’t think I can trust you around my friends, if your jealousy is so extreme that you don’t feel like controlling it. That was a disappointment.”

 

"I just won't go around your _boy_ friends," Kirihara grumbles, yanking Yanagi closer. "I can't promise I'll be nice, but I won't…ugh, I won't beat them up or anything. It's _okay_ if you're busy, I won't get in the way!" 

 

 _Chance that you’ll go easy on him, fifty percent._ Yanagi can hear the words as clearly as if Inui had spoken them aloud, and knows that the probability has always been much higher. 

 

Carefully, Yanagi settles down onto the bed, sitting delicately while hardly ruffling the bedspread. “Akaya. I don’t believe you to be capable of keeping this as secret as you think you can.” He holds up a hand, forestalling protests. “I believe you would get jealous. You would make comments. You would leave marks to prove that you are involved with me. You would grow resentful. These are reasons that I chose to cease our involvement for the time being, and your behavior hasn’t changed my mind...yet.”

 

Kirihara's lips purse. He wavers between flopping back down to his knees and _begging_ \--that works, sometimes!--but better, right now, is leaning over and grabbing Yanagi by the shoulders to give him a careful little shake. "You can give me a list of rules," he attempts to bargain. "I'll follow all of them. I can't say that I won't mess up, but…but I'll try _really_ hard." He chews on his lower lip for a moment. "The only thing I'm like, _not_ gonna be good at is not leaving marks," he admits. "But that's not entirely my fault, you're so pale that it's hard not to!" 

 

Yanagi does not like the sensation of wavering. Instead, he stands, moves to Kirihara’s desk, and unearths a clean piece of paper (purely by chance). He takes out a pen from his bag (a Platinum Rotring 500, for this purpose), and begins inking a list of requirements. “I will check on your progress periodically,” he informs Kirihara. “If you do well, you will be rewarded. If you perform poorly, you will be punished. Does that appeal to you?”

 

"Okay!" _This_ sounds like he's making headway. Kirihara tries not to bounce his way over to Yanagi, but there's really no helping it. "There's not going to be a lot of punishing, I'm going to be _really_ good, I promise."

 

There’s a 99 percent chance that Yanagi has always known it would end this way. He gives Kirihara a small smile, and hands over the list.

 

_1.    Refrain from making any contact with Inui Sadaharu._

_2.    Lead Rikkai Dai Fuzoku to victory in every match._

_3.    Maintain a grade of 80 percent or higher in every class._

_4.    Practice calligraphy for 60 minutes every evening._

_5.    Wait to be called rather than calling._

_6.    Refrain from complaining about the infrequency of meetings._

_7.    Refrain from complaining when other items are added to this list as needed._

 

“You can change your mind at any time,” he offers.

 

Admittedly, this list looks somewhat more difficult than Kirihara was anticipating. Mostly, it's the grade part that makes him wince, and the calligraphy sounds _boring…_ no, he's got this. "I'm not gonna change my mind," he stubbornly says, and promptly tapes the list up onto his wall in the midst of fifteen million or so odd tennis posters. "I've got this, Yanagi-sempai."

 

Gods help him, but Yanagi _is_ charmed. “Very well.” He stands, and it’s with mild surprise that he realizes he needs to lean slightly _up_ in order to give Kirihara a fond kiss. “You’ve grown, Akaya.”

 

 _Still not as tall as stupid Inui_ , Kirihara thinks with resentment, but that still makes him taller than Yanagi, and he _does_ like that. "I know," he says proudly, and he also likes being able to lean down and kiss Yanagi back for the first time in…forever. He swallows down a little whimper, and paws lightly at one of Yanagi's arms. "Do you _know_ how long it's been since I got to kiss anyone? Yanagi-sempai, Kaede is _evil_."

 

“If you don’t like her,” Yanagi says calmly, “then break up with her. If you like her, then keep dating her and stop calling her evil.” He steals another kiss, precise and delicious. “There is a 100 percent chance that she is less amoral than I am.”

 

"I _like her_ , but it's not…the same," Kirihara says, not quite able to put his finger on it when Yanagi kisses him again. His fingers twitch, and he makes a valiant effort not to dig them into Yanagi's arms. "Yanagi-sempai," he weakly says, _trying_ to be good, "if you don't stop kissing me, there's no way you'll leave in time to walk that Inui guy home." 

 

Yanagi rewards Kirihara with a warm smile, and a soft kiss to his lips, followed by a firm squeeze of his hand. “That was very mature of you, Akaya. The next time we see each other, I’ll reward you for that.” He’s long since made peace with the fact that he has trained Kirihara somewhat like a dog. As long as it works, everyone is happy. “Walk me to the door?”

 

There's literally _nothing_ fair about this as far as Kirihara is concerned, but complaining is on that list, and he's _going_ to keep his promise about being good. "Y-yeah, okay." 

 

It would be very, very easy to shove Yanagi _into_ said door, but Kirihara resists, and instead pouts his way down the stairs. "You can call me whenever," he hopefully says.

 

“I know.” With that to assert his position, Yanagi shoulders his bag and walks out the door, mentally congratulating himself on a situation well-handled and berating himself for being so damnably weak to Kirihara’s charms at the same time.

 

~

 

Kaidou has always been suspicious of phone calls on Sunday evenings. Nothing good ever comes out of them, he’s found. On average, they make him feel guilty, remind him of how much time he’s wasted on the weekend, and let him know that the next week will not be what he wants it to be. 

 

This particular Sunday night, he kneels in front of his low desk, writing out the last of his homework. Comedy Through the Modern Ages isn’t exactly an easy class, but at least it’s not one of his classes that requires a practical demonstration. Kaidou has nightmares about those most nights of the week, no matter how Zaizen swears up and down that he’ll be fine, that those tests aren’t a big deal, that no one will hate him if he’s as unfunny as he knows he is.

 

The phone rings.

 

Kaidou tenses, then forces himself to relax. It isn’t Zaizen; Zaizen had changed his ringtone to something strange the last time they’d updated his phone, but it only plays that particular tune whenever Zaizen calls. Kaidou eyes the phone, and swallows hard, blinking a few times in the low light of his screen. 

 

[乾貞治]

 

“Inui-sempai?” he answers, knowing it’s not the right way to answer a phone, too startled to bother with pleasantries. “Uh, I mean, hello, Inui-sempai.” There’s no reason he should be as surprised, as thrown-off as he is, he tells himself firmly, but that’s never helped.

 

Calling Kaidou was suppose to be an afterthought, but the longer that Inui considered it, the more it seemed entirely necessary. 

 

Kaidou’s voice is a shocking balm to his nerves--dependable, always, and so, so predictable in every single way. Yanagi is, too, but in something of a disappointing way at times. _Chance of him being nice to Kirihara Akaya, more like 100%_. 

 

“Kaidou,” Inui says into the phone, flopping back into his bed and pushing up his glasses briefly to gingerly prod at the bridge of his nose. “It’s been awhile, and I was thinking of you.” More specifically, he was thinking of how _simple_ middle school had been. What a shame that that’s gone. 

 

Kaidou lets out a low hiss, rocking back onto his heels and reaching up to tug at a bandana that he’s currently not wearing. Of all the things he could have heard on the phone, the fact that Inui was simply...simply _thinking of him_ was not one he was prepared for. 

 

_No. You’re not going there again, Kaidou Kaoru._

 

“Inui-sempai...ah, yes. It’s been a while.” He swallows, and nods, though Inui can’t see him. “I hope you’re well.”

 

“I wouldn’t say _well_ ,” Inui says contemplatively, which couldn’t be any more obvious than when he shifts and ah, yes, that’s another oddly shaped bruise that he’s lying upon. “I happened to play Kirihara Akaya in a tournament, and came out of it worse for wear. A shame, but it did make me recall how much better you were than to resort to those kinds of...tactics.” 

 

Talking to Kaidou is so _easy._ Inui does enjoy that part. 

 

A low growl wells up in Kaidou’s throat at the idea of _that guy_. “Fighting dirty won’t make him better at tennis,” he snarls. “It just means he has no honor. Are you...” He swallows again, and grabs a bottle of water. This is nostalgic; it’s been a while since a simple conversation was enough to make his pulse thud in his throat. Since the last time he’d talked to Inui, and every other time he’s ever talked to Inui. “I hope you’re being well cared-for. His actions reflect on him, not on you.”

 

“Don’t worry; I’m well aware of that.” Inui can so easily imagine the expression on Kaidou’s face, the way his brow would furrow and the frown on his lips--yes, good. He’s always been much more expressive than Renji, and it’s why this conversation is cathartic. “Mmn, but more importantly. How have you been at Shitenhouji? I hope your leadership has been well-received.” 

 

“It’s a weird school.” If he says how relaxed he is here, how much he’s enjoyed himself, would it sound like he’s being unfaithful to Seigaku? No, Inui isn’t that cold a person. Kaidou’s always been more critical of himself than Inui has of him, he thinks with a low flush, hunching his shoulders. “But they listen to me. I’ll tear up that demon in Nationals, Sempai.”

 

“Good boy.” Ah, that slipped out. Oh well. Inui settles back, propping his head up on a pile of pillows that’s the exact angle needed to take pressure off of one particularly sore shoulder. “I’ve heard that Shitenhouji is...strange, but it’s good to hear that you’re doing well. If your presence is going to be sorely missed, then at least it’s being put to good use.” 

 

Kaidou shifts on his tatami mat, licking suddenly dry lips at that first admission that ignites places of him he’d thought he’d successfully buried. Damn it, he has _Zaizen_ now, he’s not supposed to remember how intense that ache of longing has always been, how patiently he’d waited, how hard he’d _worked_ , all for the idea that someday, there might be a chance, if he could only be worthy enough...

 

“I don’t think anyone is sorely missing my presence,” he manages to say, looking resolutely down at his folded hands. “Ah--uh, but you’re at Rikkai, you must be busy. Is it...” He balls up his fists, thinking of the serene countenance of Rikkai’s data man. “I hope it’s everything you wanted it to be, Inui-sempai.”

 

“You’re certainly wrong about one thing, Kaidou. Would I be calling you if I didn’t miss you?” Inui archly points out. He does like being able to correct someone without being glared at for a solid hour. “And Rikkai...ah, well, it was a choice. It’s certainly more competitive than Seigaku ever was, and that can be somewhat stressful. I think you would enjoy that, too, in a way.” 

 

“M-maybe.” _If you were there._ No, that’s wrong, he would like it for more than just Inui Sadaharu. “I wouldn’t have the grades to go there.” Not smart enough, not strong enough, not genius enough, not equipped with enough clever comebacks to make Inui’s eyes dance behind his glasses like that Yanagi Renji always does. “I’ll be...if you’re...” Kaidou clears his throat, and hates the loudness of the sound in the quiet room. “When we make Nationals this summer. It’ll be up there somewhere. If you’re free--it’s only junior high tennis, I know...”

 

“With your talent, I doubt grades would matter. Just a thought.” It takes such minimal praise to get such a nice reaction out of Kaidou, and Inui does so enjoy the way Kaidou reacts to every little thing. “Don’t worry, Kaidou. When Shitenhouji makes Nationals, I’ll be there to congratulate you.” 

 

Another hiss. Zaizen would frown at him; he’s always so proud that he’s the one who got Kaidou to stop hissing so much, as if it’s some kind of achievement. What the hell is he supposed to say when Inui is talking about his _talent_? “I-if...if you ever have a tournament down here, Inui-sempai. I would go. Ah, and if that Kirihara ever tries to pull anything, I could put him in his place for you.”

 

 _If you’re going to play with yours, Professor, then I’m going to start playing with mine again._ “Hmm. I’ll have to see about scheduling something down in Osaka, then. I can only imagine that would be...intriguing. Of course Kirihara wouldn’t bother going so far south, though. It would be better if neither of us had to deal with him, wouldn’t it?” 

 

“I’m not worried about him,” Kaidou says immediately. He can’t have Inui thinking he’s gone soft in their time apart, after all. He takes another swig of his water, and offers, “I don’t know how intriguing Osaka would be to a man like you, but, uh, I’d...show you around. There’s an aquarium...um, and tennis courts, of course, and you could always...I’m sure you’d find a great place to stay, but if you didn’t...”

 

It’s because Inui took him by surprise. Back at Seigaku, Kaidou had been _good_ at dealing with this, dealing with Inui, and keeping it together during their conversations (except for the occasional blush and hiss). Now, he’s lost his immunity, and every confident word in that familiar deep voice is enough to make his heart ache.

 

“Oh, is that an invitation?” Hearing the edge of nerves in Kaidou’s voice is rather appealing. “Unnecessary, of course, but very appreciated. If anything, I’d find somewhere nice to stay and invite you to stay with me. You can’t be enjoying dorm life that much. I’m sure you’d appreciate a change for at least a weekend.” 

 

“S-sempai!” This is too much. As in every conversation he’s ever had with Inui, Kaidou is painfully certain that Inui knows exactly how he feels, and is mocking him with the idea of a chance. Unworthy as those thoughts are, it’s hard to avoid them when he says things like...

 

Kaidou’s fist thunks against the wall, and he takes a deep breath. “Bring your racquet when you come. I’d like you to make sure I haven’t gotten soft down here.” _Not a problem right now_ , parts of his anatomy remind him disobediently.

 

“The chance of that happening is less than 5%,” Inui hums, infinitely pleased with himself. “But don’t worry, Kaidou. I’ll make sure to run you through your paces as soon as I can. I’m sure it’s been awhile since you’ve been properly...worked over.” 

 

Kaidou’s hand tightens until he hears his knuckles pop. “That sounds...good.” His face is so red he feels it burning, lays a hand next to his cheek and feels the heat there. “If you think I’m too weak you can always tell me how to get stronger. Whatever you decide, I can take it.” 

 

“I know you can. That’s why I’ve always depended on you.” One more step to the right, so to speak, and this conversation could potentially derail. It’s best not to go there as of yet. “Make sure to keep your phone with you in the future, Kaidou. I know sometimes you tend to ignore it...but I’d like to be able to get in contact with you easily. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

 

“It’s no trouble.” It’s so much trouble Kaidou can hardly keep it together, but at least this conversation is ending. He can tell, because his heart has started to hurt, the phrase _please don’t go_ closer to his lips than he likes. “Thank you for calling, Sempai. I hope you recover quickly.”

 

“Talking to you has reminded me to be more...resilient, I think.” One last little offering of praise, and that’s enough, Inui is sure. Too much more, and Kaidou might start self-destructing. “It’s good to hear your voice again, Kaidou. Have a good night.” 

 

“You as well.” Kaidou hangs up, and curls onto his side, curling in on himself as he tries to decide how strong he’s going to be next. He aches, _throbs_ , and he’s less than a second from shoving a hand down between his legs. It would only take a second at this point, but the shame it would cause would be with him for days. Kaidou knows; he’s made that choice before, hung up on Inui only to fist his cock fast and hard and almost cruel, imagining Inui doing things that--

 

 _No_.

 

He can’t imagine that now. It’s different; he has a boyfriend, he has a bunny, he’s the Captain of a promising team. He doesn’t need to be so stupidly _hungry_ for something he’ll never have anymore.

 

The second choice is to run laps until he’s sore, aching, and exhausted. It hardly takes him any time at all to decide on that instead, lurching up from where he’s kneeling and grabbing his running clothes. His hands are trembling as he tugs them on, and he stops and punches a wall until they stop. This is the worst it’s ever been, and that’s saying something.

 

The knock on his door is short and sweet before Zaizen pokes his head in--and pauses, his eyebrows slowly arching.

 

Kaidou looks...hm. Upset is the word, but it’s probably more than that. Zaizen slips in awkwardly, hovering at the door and warily wondering what the hell he’s walked in on now. “Hey,” he says, the bag of fresh vegetables he brought for that fluffy bunny (gross) swaying back and forth around a pair of his fingers. “Did something...uh...happen?” 

 

Kaidou freezes, as if he’s been caught doing something a hell of a lot worse than putting on his running shoes. Of course, he _has_ , but only in his mind. When Zaizen is standing there, looking bewildered and so far out of Kaidou’s league it’s ridiculous, he feels like the worst kind of traitor. “Going for a run,” he says gruffly, turning his head to try and avoid meeting Zaizen’s eyes. 

 

Zaizen blinks. “Kinda late, isn’t it?” he remarks, glancing at the clock, but then again, he’s here with rabbit food, so what does that say about him? _Dumb._ A few more things are on the tip of his tongue-- _something did happen, go ahead and spill_ \--but Kaidou really doesn’t look interested in chatting. Probably best to let him go run. This is Relationship’ing, right? “Okay. Well. I brought some stuff for the rabbit, I’ll just leave it and...go...”

 

Kaidou’s throat closes. Is this bad? Is he throwing this away? Zaizen can’t see him when he’s like _this_. Even hearing that disappointment in Zaizen’s face is better than what would happen if Zaizen knew about him, about what he thinks about when he stops lying to himself. “I’ll be gone a couple of hours,” he says shortly, tying a bandana around his head. “If...I could come by your house after. Or if you’re here....” He hisses low in his throat, shaking his head as he moves for the door.

 

Shit, this is really up to him, isn’t it? Zaizen inwardly groans, because Kaidou’s doing that hissing thing again, and being really, really cryptic. It’s not good when things are up to him. There’s like, at least a million percent of a chance that he’s going to fuck it up and not be cool at all. 

 

“Okay, but seriously,” Zaizen interrupts his own thoughts, reaching out to grab Kaidou’s elbow and tug him a few paces back into his dorm room. “Either’s fine, I guess? But something’s got you all freaked out. Is it the rabbit? I can take her to the vet. Or is it a tennis thing? What?”

 

The tug is a surprise, and more of one is the fact that it brings Kaidou into sudden contact with Zaizen--more specifically, with Zaizen’s hip. Kaidou hadn’t thought it was possible to turn a deeper shade of red, and the humiliation makes him jerk back. “I...” No, he can’t just leave _now_ , that would mean having to talk more _later_ , and Kaidou’s nothing if not a glutton for the most immediate punishment available. 

 

He sags down onto the bed, looking determinedly at the floor. “I keep wondering when you’re going to find someone better than me,” he mutters, surprising himself with that sentence, and the fact that it’s entirely true.

 

Right. So _not_ tennis or the rabbit. 

 

Zaizen awkwardly shifts from one foot to the next, then sighs, shrugs, and drops his shopping bag next to the bed before flopping down next to Kaidou on the edge of it. “That’s kind of a dumb thing to say,” he bluntly offers up. “Because I think you’re cool and I’ve got pretty high standards. Is this a sex thing?” Better just to go ahead and ask that, he supposes. 

 

“I dunno.” He owes Zaizen more than that, but articulating it is never something he’s been good at. “Hikaru...” 

 

Kaidou balls up his hands and thunks each fist solidly into one of his calves, furious at himself, needing to confess, but not even knowing _what_ to confess. It isn’t like he thinks of Inui like he does about Zaizen; there are no long, lazy afternoons of kissing and touching in those fantasies. There are no dates, no times to go out and pick food for Mochi-sama, no easy evenings listening to some band he’s never heard of that don’t sound like they’re playing real instruments. It’s his fantasies about Inui (and others, but the ones with Inui are always the most troublingly intense and prevalent) that have made him so sure for so long that there’s something very wrong with him. “I...I want to talk to you,” he says, knowing full well how awkward he is and not able to stop, “but I don’t...know how.”

 

“....O..kay.” Zaizen, for not the first time, feels very out of his league in this relationship thing. He shifts awkwardly, glancing away for a moment, and sucks in a long, steadying breath. “If it’s a sex thing,” he attempts, firmly telling himself that even if this is the most uncool thing ever, he _has_ to do it, because Kaidou sure as hell isn’t gonna, “then I’m not gonna be weird about it. I’ve seen a ton of weird stuff online. It’s not a big deal. If it’s not...” 

 

He trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck, then fiddling with one itchy ear piercing in particular. “I dunno. Whatever it is, I’m not gonna be mad. If you don’t wanna say it outright, you could write it down or something. Seriously, Kaoru, it’s not like I’m gonna bite your head off.” 

 

“Hikaru.” Zaizen is too good for him. Kaidou has always known it, but today is making it upsettingly obvious. “I want...I want you to help me be stronger.” Kaidou shakes his head. It’s not really what he wanted to say. “I mean...I think I’m weak. And sometimes I have these...” God, he _hates_ himself sometimes. “M-maybe if you tell me one of yours first--you don’t have to...it’s just that I have these...and I don’t know if they’re... _conditional_ , I don’t know if that’s the...word...” This is so much harder than he’d thought it would be, and he’d thought it would be hard.

 

Now would be a greeeat time to be telepathic. 

 

There are a few things that Zaizen exerts energy over, and one of those is Kaidou Kaoru. Mystifyingly. He frowns, contemplating, and attempting to piece this mess of a conversation together. “...Gonna make a leap and just assume you’re talking about sex things,” he slowly hedges. “Like...fantasies and shit? Yes? No? Everyone’s got those, Kaoru.” 

 

Kaidou supposes this is a step in the right direction, even if it’s in the direction of his worst nightmares. His knees part, and he hunches over, bracing one hand on each thigh. “I have them. About another guy.” The words are harder to get out than ground glass, and Kaidou almost chokes on them. There, that’s the worst of it. Zaizen is free to hate him now, to find someone better, some supermodel boy who’s perfect at tennis without trying, wealthy and artlessly lovely, just like every other man he’s ever wanted has found--Yanagi, Atobe, Niou, Yukimura--and what he can never be.

 

Zaizen blinks at him, slowly and decidedly unfazed. “Yeah. That’s a pretty common thing, too. Speaking from personal experience--I’m glad Chitose-senpai graduated, he always smelled so good and literally flirted with me every day, it was like a dumb shoujo manga and really, really gross when I’d try to jerk off. Who’s your poison?” 

 

Kaidou lets out a breath he’s been holding for about three years, and sags forward a little. “Never said it before,” he says gruffly, his spinal column itself tingling with relief. “I-Inui-sempai.” His voice is so low he almost can’t hear it himself. 

 

“Called it,” is Zaizen’s deadpan to follow. He shrugs after that, shifting his weight back slightly. This is actually kind of a relief. “I mean. I guess it was Koharu who called it. Anyway. It’s no big deal. He’s your type, yeah? Koharu said you’ve got a type.” 

 

The noise Kaidou lets out is sort of like a whimper that’s gone through a meat grinder. “Y-yeah. You’re....you’re really not...done with me?” All of the worry, the self-hatred at himself for not being _strong enough_ , was it for nothing? Not that he isn’t still furious with himself every second about _having_ those fantasies, but at least if Zaizen knows... 

 

There might be a chance.

 

“...What the hell, Kaoru,” Zaizen exhales, glancing back at him and looking about as genuinely confused and exasperated as one ever could look. “Why would I be done with you? I don’t care who you fap to, it’s none of my business. It’s not like you’re trying to date him or something, that’d be lame. This is just kinda...whatever? It’s not like you still aren’t _my_ boyfriend,” he adds gruffly, rubbing a hand back through his hair. 

 

Kaidou can’t say any of the stupid, self-pitying things that rise in his mind-- _because the only thing I have going for me as a boyfriend is that I can’t do better so you don’t have to worry about me; because I’m ungrateful enough to even think about someone else when I have you; because I never expected to have you in the first place and I’m not nearly as worthy of you as you seem to think_ \--because they sound stupid. Instead, he admits the one thing he’s angrier about than anything else. “Because they’re not just...I mean, they _are_ just fantasies, but...” He shrugs helplessly. “He just called. I’m not as............ _over_ him as I’d like to be, I guess.”

 

“...Okay,” Zaizen settles for again, unsure of what to even say to that except that, plus a shrug. Yeah, he’s not really equipped for this. Welp, one more thing to get out of the way: “You’re not like, breaking up with me and I’m just not getting it, right?” 

 

“Huh? No!” Kaidou meets Zaizen’s eyes for the first time tonight, his own eyes wild. “I just--if you--I wanted to be _honest_ , I’d never want to break up with you--”

 

“Then we’re good,” Zaizen hurriedly interrupts, holding up both of his hands. “Just wanted to check, because it’s not like I want to break up with you. Geez, Kaoru. It’s cool, I know you’re not gonna do anything. Thanks for the full disclosure and everything but I don’t think it’s like...a huge deal.” 

 

Kaidou hisses out the biggest breath he’s ever taken in his life, nodding dumbly. “Yeah. I...yeah. Okay. I just...” His hands are still balled into fists, and it’s hard not to keep pounding at things. “I don’t know why these feelings won’t go _away_. I don’t know how to make them. I want--just _you_.” _But you don’t_ , a little voice says in his mind, casually amused. _There is a 100 percent chance that you would do things for Inui you’d never do for Zaizen, and you’ve always known it._

 

“It’s like having a crush on a gravure idol or something,” Zaizen reasons with him,  reaching over to awkwardly pat Kaidou’s knee, then deciding that’s dumb and squeezes it instead. “Like, you wanna do them, and you’d _totally_ be down for it if they offered...but it’s harmless. Seriously, I’m not worried about it, and you shouldn’t be, either.” 

 

Kaidou thunks sideways, leaning on Zaizen’s shoulder, seeking that warmth immediately and being more gratified than he can admit. “It’s not like I want him...like I want you. I never did. I never wanted _this_ with anyone but you.” Dumb to admit, but at least he doesn’t need to look at Zaizen while he says it. _That_ would be impossibly humiliating.

 

Zaizen heaves out a slow breath, and loops an arm around Kaidou’s waist to tug him closer. “Then you _really_ don’t need to worry about it,” he mumbles, turning his face and burying it into a mix of bandana and hair. Maybe crisis avoided? Who knows, but Kaidou does at least seem a bit calmer. “I’m not threatened by some data weirdo. Seriously, it’s fine.” 

 

Kaidou nods, burying his face in Zaizen’s shoulder. “It was easier when I wasn’t talking to him,” he mutters. “It was like everything just...came back. Stronger than ever. There’s stuff that...” He trails off, merely annoyed at his lack of the right words now instead of wanting to bash his own head into the wall. “Tch. You tell me something. One of your weird fantasies.”

 

“Um.........” Shit, they’re _weird_ , though. “I like futa porn,” he says without even flinching. Not that there’s any shame in that. Whatever, time to just get that out of the way. “You know--girls with dicks?”

 

Kaidou blinks. He does _not_ know about girls with dicks. “Huh.” At least that makes his sound a lot, _lot_ less weird by comparison...he hopes. He’s always had a feeling Zaizen wouldn’t mind it if he were a girl--maybe he was half right? “Mine are kind of...hmph.” Kaidou scowls, and grunts. “They’re a little intense. You might not want to know.”

 

“Try me.” Zaizen flops backwards, dragging Kaidou with him, and rolls onto his side to properly stare at him. “I promise it’s not gonna be anything I haven’t heard before.” 

 

 _I just don’t want you to think of me different_. Then again, Kaidou supposes that ship has probably sailed by now, so he might as well go the whole way. “I’m usually...uh. I don’t even really know the word for it. You probably do. Like...” His face flushes again. “What’s the word for it. When you like being hit and stuff. Someone being cruel to you.”

 

“Ahhh, yeah. You’re a masochist. Called that, too,” Zaizen says unflinchingly, and calmly tips his head forward to knock it against Kaidou’s. “That’s pretty normal. Anything else?” 

 

Kaidou lets out a bark that might be a laugh, hoarse and stark. “I should have known you wouldn’t even blink. I dunno. All of it. Everything that goes with that, I guess. I don’t even...know how to explain some of it, but it’s all like that. You...really don’t think it’s...it doesn’t bother you?” 

 

“Nah. It’s pretty cool, looks like fun.” Zaizen shrugs again. “I mean...I dunno if I could do that to you because I’m pretty lazy and mostly, I don’t really want to hurt you or anything, but I could try, if you were like...really hard up for it. Or is this just an Inui thing?”

 

Kaidou shrugs. “It’s not just him,” he admits, flashing back to some of his lonely nights and the many, _many_ men he’s imagined standing above him. “But I...I love what we do, too. You don’t have to.” He pauses, frowns, and asks, “How many holes?”

 

“Huh?” Zaizen’s eyebrows raise. “Are we talking about weird crevices in an average human body, or how many new piercings I’ve gotten lately, because those are some pretty varying numbers.” 

 

Kaidou scowls. “The girls. With dicks. How many, and _where_?”

 

“Oh. Depends on the kind of porn. Sometimes they’ve got a vagina _and_ a dick, sometimes they don’t, it’s weird, real weird.” 

 

Kaidou shudders a little at the word _vagina_ , and tries to get it under control. “I hope you don’t expect me to play that one out,” he mutters. “I’m not growing anything extra.” 

 

“Please don’t. It’s not like you already wouldn’t look good in a dress, and that does it for me, too.” Whateverrrr, this is not a time for shame and he has none to speak of in the first place. 

 

Kaidou blinks again, much more slowly this time. “I...uh.” He clears his throat, which doesn’t help at all, not even a little bit. He shifts, and for the first time, completely flounders for something to say that doesn’t sound desperately needy or like a roar of horrified agreement. _Not fair_ that it’s Zaizen and not Inui, Zaizen who he’d wanted to keep way from the strange way his brain works, but his dick doesn’t seem to care. “Uh.”

 

Huh? Oh. _Oh._ Well. That’s good. Maybe? Now he’s not sure. Zaizen leans away to clear his throat. “I mean. If you’re like, totally grossed out by it...I think it’s pretty cool, and like...cute...and stuff...but...”

 

“I’m--” Kaidou’s voice breaks, and he pulls away, reaching for a bottle of water and downing the entire thing in three enormous gulps. “N-not grossed out.” That’s as much as he can really stomach saying on the subject that has been on his mind so many, _many_ times, as long as he can remember.

 

That _seems_ like a pretty good reaction. “So...if I did end up buying you stuff like that...you’d wear it?” Zaizen hedges. 

 

How the hell is he supposed to respond to _that?_ Kaidou hesitates, then nods once, jerking his head and leaving it facing the floor. Zaizen always understands too much. In this case, that’s a fucking godsend. He leaves unsaid, _If I didn’t, you could force me_ , because that’s something he’s going to have to work up to saying.

 

“ _Score_ ,” Zaizen sighs out, flopping his head back down. “I _never_ thought I’d have a boyfriend that was into that. This is why you’re cooler than like, everyone, Kaoru.” 

 

Kaidou flushes again--he’s going to get some kind of a skin condition at this rate, it’s worse than his first year when he’d accidentally walked into the stall where Inui was showering--and makes a noncommittal noise. “Just glad you don’t hate it. You’ll need to...tell me what to do.” That sentence certainly brings back his flagging erection, even if he hadn’t quite meant it that way.

 

“Well, _yeah._ I figured. Don’t worry, I’ve got plans, I know this perfect store online and literally the second I go home, I’m ordering a bunch of stuff.” Zaizen pauses, eyes him, glances down, then glances back up to Kaidou’s face. “Were you seriously gonna go running with that, because that sounds really shitty.” 

 

Kaidou instinctively moves his hands down, even though it’s not like Zaizen has never seen him hard as a rock before. “Not the first time,” he grunts. “It’s what I do when I don’t want to...hmph.” It might sound stupid to Zaizen, but it had helped him keep his feelings for Inui to a dull roar a lot better than he would have if he’d let himself get off to those images every day.

 

“Fair enough.” Zaizen’s head tilts, considering. “We could do stuff, if you want,” he says. “Or I could just feed Mochi for you and you can go run. It’s cool either way. You seemed...um, really upset before,” he awkwardly adds. “Are you better now?” Shit, he shouldn’t have to ask, he should be able to _tell._  

 

Slowly, jerkily, Kaidou nods. “I don’t think...I’d feel right, doing stuff right now. With you.” That doesn’t sound quite right, and he adds, “Don’t want you to think I’m...thinking of anyone else. But we can both feed Mochi-sama, and maybe listen to some of your music? Or homework, or...the running is just a distraction,” he finishes lamely. “You’re a better one.”

 

 _I am literally so unthreatened that you have no idea_ is what Zaizen wants to say, but it’s not entirely true, besides. He’s a little...eh, not threatened, but it’s not like he likes thinking about Inui or anything. What a gross data thing. “Mochi first, then we can do homework. I forgot my iPod because I was doing rabbit food research earlier, lame.” 

 

“That’s not lame,” Kaidou insists, getting up and grabbing the rabbit food, clubbing his dick into submission with the heel of his hand. “It’s great. Ah, you even got her the cucumber peels, she loves those.” His voice is fonder and less rough than it has been all night. Zaizen, he’s pretty sure, is the best thing he’s ever been lucky enough to score in his life. “I have some of your music on my computer. You left it here last time.”

 

“Yeah, but not like, the _newest_ stuff. Speaking of cucumbers, there’s a new band called Zombie Cucumber, they’re pretty good.” Zaizen slides out of bed with a stretch. He’ll consider this a success. Kaidou _does_ seem mostly okay now, so that’s good. “Mochi’s gonna get fat if we aren’t careful, though. I don’t want a fat baby.” 

 

“No, it’s good if she’s fat. She doesn’t have to impress anyone.” Kaidou carefully lifts Mochi out of her cage, and lets her snuffle at his face, something that (he thinks with pride) she never does with anyone else. “Only us. And we’re impressed.”

 

“Dunno,” Zaizen skeptically says. “I’m impressed, but not because she’s gonna be fat.” 

 

“Don’t give her body issues. Shh, Mochi-sama, don’t listen to Daddy.”


	12. Niou and Yukimura; Chitose, Tachibana, and the Brother-Sister Doubles Match

It rains and it pours, and the charity match is rained out.

 

Yukimura fumes about it. Finally, a chance to prove that he's more than adequate at doubles, and he certainly can make a fantastic showing, only to have it taken away from him. He sulks the whole way back to the apartment before deciding _fine,_ he can still make good on this afternoon, and it's going to have quite a bit to do with curling up somewhere warm with Niou. 

 

"You," Yukimura informs the other boy over a bowl with scarcely warmed up raw cookie dough in it (eating unhealthily again has never been so beautiful), "are going to entertain me." 

 

That's something much better than doubles, he thinks, even though they both worked hard to make this work. He plops down onto the couch, offers Niou a spoon as well, and peers up at him through his lashes. "Tell me about all the drama we're probably missing at Rikkai right now." 

 

Niou grins, and throws a leg over Yukimura’s lap, digging a spoon into something that has more calories than any food is meant to have, thinking while the sugar assaults his tongue. Yukimura is kind of a master at warming it in the microwave until _just_ warm, not until it’s a cookie. “Hmm...the weirdest shit is probably going around with the data threesome. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m _all_ for threesomes, but permanently? That shit’s begging for trouble.”

 

Yukimura is fairly certain that he has been alone in England for far too long if he'd rather be hearing about this than playing tennis. "They were weird before, and I had only heard vague stories from Yanagi," he admits, prodding at the cookie dough for a second before selecting the perfect spoonful. "Are they legitimately a permanent threesome? How does that work? It sounds like a _lot_ of work, honestly…"

 

“I tried to infiltrate. They’re obnoxiously good at spotting a fake.” Niou doesn’t want to remember that unfortunate moment, and digs out a huge cluster of melty chocolate. “I got far enough to find out they have a written agreement, meetings, and a schedule. And that apparently Akuto gives a world record amount of blowjobs.”

 

"…That's horrific," Yukimura says, blinking hard. "It requires a written agreement? I mean, I suppose it's Yanagi, so I'm not _surprised_ , but…" He shudders a bit, suddenly recalling last summer, and stuffs his spoon into his mouth. "At least it isn't Akaya. Poor Akaya." 

 

“Yeah, he’s just boning your little sister.”

 

" _Gross!"_ Yukimura immediately lunges forward to grab at Niou's rat tail. "Don't say that, they're not having sex! They're--ugh, it's not like I even care, but don't _say it_ , it's _weird._ " 

 

“But it’s not like you care.” Niou grins, and yanks back, and the rat tail comes off in Yukimura’s hand. “Puri. But for the record, nah, they’re definitely not doing it. He was bragging about how she let him hold her hand for _eight whole seconds_ last month.”

 

Yukimura throws the rat tail back in his face and flops back down, tugging the bowl of cookie dough to his chest and thus, out of Niou's reach unless he wants to get _very_ snuggly. "My sister is a hell beast," he bluntly says. "So it's probably best if Akaya just wants to keep holding her hand. That's all Gen and I did until we were like 12, anyway."

 

“Fourteen COUGH fourteen,” Niou says in a deadpan without bothering to cough at all. “COUGH fifteen in his case.”

 

"Oh my _god_ , Niou, we _definitely_ did more than hold hands by the time we were…ugh, you're being so _nitpicky,_ " Yukimura hisses, twisting to get a foot up for prime kicking. "Say it again, I'll break you." 

 

Instead of fighting, Niou leans forward and licks the side of Yukimura’s foot. “Oh! Speaking of Yanagi and foot-licking, their doubles game is improving.”

 

Yukimura strangles down a shriek, and settles for digging his heel into Niou's shoulder slowly. "That's _great_ ," he grinds out, trying to keep a straight face. "They better win everything. Otherwise, they have no excuse for being gross. At least you and Yagyuu have that going for you." 

 

“Yep, we win everything and are the number one gross pair in Japan...now that you and Sanada are out of the running,” Niou says, stealing the cookie dough back and digging in his spoon before Yukimura can snatch it away. “Tennis isn’t even a challenge anymore. No one good is playing except at Rikkai. Fuji retired, Shiraishi retired, Tezuka’s gone, Atobe’s gone, the rookies are still in middle school, and everyone else transferred to Rikkai. None of the old doubles pairs are playing anymore, either.”

 

Yukimura huffs, but surrenders the cookie dough without too much of a fight as he settles back, just leaving his foot propped up on Niou's shoulder as he properly stretches out. "Sorry about it," he says sympathetically. "I mean, in a way. Being that good just means you should be entering tournaments outside of our district on your own time, but I know you won't do it. You're both such a _waste_." 

 

“Just don’t care that much,” Niou says honestly. “What’s the point? Before it was about the team, but...” He shrugs. “Whatever. You can just kick all that ass for all of us. I mean, it’s not like we’re giving up on tennis or anything.” He just doesn’t _care_ like he used to, which is a feeling he’s all too familiar with.

 

A long sigh follows that. "Sometimes…ugh. A lot of the time," Yukimura admits, his eyes lidding, "it feels like it would be nice to be back home with you guys and have the team like it used to be. I mean, obviously, _this_ is what I want to do, but I don't like knowing that you're all just losing interest if I'm not there." 

 

“Not all of us?” Niou ventures. He reaches over, rubbing Yukimura’s shoulders (always all knotted up, even when they’re not playing tennis) with one hand. “I’m just a piece of shit, boss. It’s not your job to keep dangling something shiny in front of me.”

 

Yukimura makes a face even as he lets his weight slowly, _almost_ sag back into Niou's hand. "But it's not just you. Sanada? Obviously distracted, not even trying to be captain. Yanagi, chasing after his harem…Marui and Jackal, obviously…and I'm not even there to yell at Mouri and keep him in line…" 

 

Niou turns, and immediately lets the spoon fall to the ground to give Yukimura his full attention. “Not your job to be captain of every team in the world,” he murmurs, working his thumbs into stubborn knots. “Don’t be dumb, high school is just when people start drifting apart. Not everyone wants to be on a sports team forever. That’s why it’s so easy to win, every other team is doing this, too.”

 

"But…" Yukimura would _like_ to think that Rikkai is different. He's actually fairly certain that if he were there, it would be. There wouldn't be any excuses. There's no helping the way that makes him worry, though chewing on his own chapped lips and flopping back into Niou's very good, very talented hands is enough to silence his tongue for a moment. "It makes it feel like it was all for nothing, if it falls apart," he says, trying not to sound too mournful about it (and failing). "If you all end up hating one another, don't tell me about it, okay?" 

 

“Boss.” Niou squeezes. “Just because something doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean it didn’t count.”

 

"I built a _legacy._ It's supposed to stay like that." Yukimura huffs, twisting partially around to glower at him. " _Obviously_." 

 

“And it will,” Niou says, in what he thinks is a _very_ patient voice, “in Rikkai Dai Fuzoku. You were never the captain of Rikkai High, just let it be what it is.”

 

"I could have been," is the petulant retort that Yukimura mumbles underneath his breath. "I _would_ have been." Easily. Without a single power struggle, he's sure of it. 

 

He drops it, though, because Niou _isn't_ Sanada, and isn't going to listen to him rant about the same thing for three hours straight. What Niou is, however, is very warm and with very good hands and very, very easy to snuggle back up against, and he'd rather preserve that than have Niou waltz right out the door. "You could tell me _good_ things now. About whatever. Doesn't have to be tennis." God forbid.

 

Niou sighs. That’s a fucking relief, Yukimura in heinous bitch mode is nothing he wants to deal with, and Yukimura in power-tripping god mode is no better. “Sweet. Hey, I met Yagyuu’s mom. Even on purpose, he invited me over for dinner and everything. I was a perfect gentleman.” At least, Yagyuu’s family had seemed to think so, and that’s all that matters.

 

 _That_ brings about a very skeptical look when Yukimura flops his head against Niou's shoulder. "You? A gentleman? Actually, no, I'm going to backtrack to the part about you meeting Yagyuu's mom. Is she _so_ normal or as awkward as he is?" 

 

“He only gets like that around you and Sanada,” Niou grumbles. “And she’s really nice. She gave me double ice cream. _Huge_ tits. Like, bigger than my mom.”

 

"Huh. That's pretty weird. Does Yagyuu look like her or like his dad?" It's weird to think of Yagyuu having _normal_ parents, for as strange as he is. "Okay, real talk. You are _so_ into him. How, exactly? Not being mean, I swear. I just want to get it." 

 

“How?” Niou blinks, and leans back on his hands. “You mean how could I possibly like a nerdlord like him, or how did it happen, or how into him am I? I think we need more sugar for this conversation. Or like, English drugs.”

 

Yukimura narrows his eyes, thinking. "…I have alcohol," he slowly offers up. "And a lot more cookie dough. Neither of which are approved substances according to Genichirou, and I do like the sound of that." 

 

“ _You_ have _alcohol_?” Niou crows. “Tell me it’s absinthe. I’ve heard _so_ much about absinthe.”

 

"Shut up! Do you know how much stuff I have _given to me?_ They don't ask how old I am!" Yukimura huffs, climbing off of the couch to go rummage. "But it's not absinthe, that stuff sounds gross."

 

“I heard you see fairies. Sounds fucking cool.” Niou isn’t terribly bothered by the lack of strange green drinks, and slides down onto the floor. “What do you want to know about Yagyuu, anyway? He looks just like his mom, if that helps. But without the tits. Shame, really.”

 

"Weird," Yukimura tosses over his shoulder, and grabs a couple of glasses as well as one of two bottles that Sanada would have probably tossed out the window--vodka, which is highly unnecessary but suitable for this, and _not_ a bottle of wine shoved at him by Atobe some time back, which is never going to be opened again for the amount of _headaches_ that it caused. "He never seemed like your type," Yukimura admits when he flops down onto the floor next to Niou. "I mean, I dunno. I thought _I_ was your type." 

 

“You?” Niou raises an eyebrow, and pours himself a shot, downing it with the ease of long practice, though from where, he’ll never say. “Who says I have a type, anyway? And if I did, it wouldn’t be you. You’re the exception.”

 

Yukimura sits cross-legged and glares at him, deciding not to touch anything horrific and alcoholic for the time being. "How am I the exception? I'm _so_ great." 

 

“You’re bossy. I don’t like that.”

 

"But you like me! How can you not like it if you like me?"

 

“That’s why it’s an _exception_ , boss. On anyone _else_ , bossy is shitty. On you, it’s sort of...” Niou grins, and brushes a strand of hair back from Yukimura’s face. “Yeah.”

 

That's, um. An unnecessary tingle down his spine. Mildly horrified at himself, Yukimura's eyes flick to the side as he leans back, pushing his own hair away from his face in an attempt to hide the way his cheeks flush. "Right." _Get your hormones together, Seiichi._ "Anyway, more importantly, you and Yagyuu are attached at the hip. He just doesn't…I don't know, seem like the kind of person I thought you'd fall for." 

 

“Me either.” Niou pours himself another shot of vodka (gross, _gross_ ) and downs it swiftly, pretending not to notice the burn. “Yeah, that’s smooth. Anyway, yeah. Took me by surprise, too. Did I tell you how we got together?”

 

"I don't think so." Yukimura just settles for finishing off that slab of cookie dough, because alcohol is out of his league, and he's going to admit that for the time being. "It just seemed like suddenly, you two were an item, and always whispering in the back of the clubhouse and dressing up as one another…"

 

“You were gone.” That’s Niou’s euphemism for _the hospital_ , because both of them pretty much hate that word. “Right at the beginning of that, when he was still newish? He came into the locker room.” He can imagine it perfectly; the look on Yagyuu’s face had been priceless--then, inscrutable. “I was taking off my Sanada wig, and he didn’t really...I dunno, react. He asked if I could change into anyone. I said yeah, puri, and he asked me to turn into him.” Niou pauses. “ _No_ one wants me to turn into them.”

 

Yukimura chews slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Well. Obviously. It's weird." He fishes out a chocolate chip specifically, and subsequently sticks his spoon back into his mouth. "So? Did you?"

 

“Not then. I had to study him for a while. I hadn’t ever paid him much attention before--you know, none of us did, back then, no matter how good he was at tennis.” 

 

Niou digs out a spoon of cookie dough, munching it softly to get rid of the alcohol’s lingering taste. “I snuck out to see you a couple days later. When I came back, I found out he’d covered for me. He had his own wig and everything. What was I supposed to do?”

 

"…That's sort of…weirdly romantic?" Yukimura hesitantly offers up, baffled and finding himself stupidly charmed all the same. That's unfortunate. Yagyuu really isn't supposed to impress him, but that's… "Cute," he adds aloud underneath his breath. "Weird, but…is that seriously when you two started dating?" 

 

“Well. It’s when we started _fucking_.” Niou sighs. If he tries, he can hear the squeak of gym shoes on the tile, feel the bench press into his chest, taste Yagyuu’s nervous hand over his mouth even now. “Like... _right_ then. Ugh, he was so cute, we kissed after for like ten straight minutes.” What Niou wouldn’t do to have Yagyuu on the next plane to England right now doesn’t bear thinking about.

 

The sound of the ringing phone cuts into his memories, and he flinches away from it on instinct.

 

"Ah, sorry, sorry." _Not now, I was enjoying this!_ Yukimura mentally laments, and crawls away to grab his phone out of his still-damp coat. He half-expects his agent, and is ready to feign illness, but when it's Sanada… "Hold that thought," he hisses over to Niou, waving a hand as he immediately takes the call. "Gen, hi!" 

 

“Seiichi.” Sanada’s voice is warm, relieved, and hopeful all at once. “Did I get the timing right?” The computer in front of him flashes the answer to his typed question [WATH TIME IS IT IN LONDON ENGLAND IN THE DISTRIC T OF BANKSIDE PLEASE ANSWER].

 

"Mm, this is fine." Yukimura clutches the phone to his ear, listing a little to one side to tug the bowl of cookie dough over to him once more. "You're lucky, though. I was supposed to be playing a doubles tournament thing right now, but it got rained out." 

 

“I’m sorry your tournament got rained out.” Something dawns to Sanada, and his face lights up--this is perfect. “Actually, I called you about a tournament. Your sister asked me to see if you’d be willing to come home for a brother-sister game at the beginning of next month.”

 

“ _Fag_ ,” Niou whispers. “Tell him he’s a _fag_.”

 

Yukimura scowls over at Niou, and waves his spoon threateningly. "A brother-sister tournament? She didn't mention anything about that to me," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. "I dunno if that's gonna work, anyway. The beginning of next month is a major tournament week for me over here," he begins, hauling himself to his feet and trotting off into the kitchen to the calendar he has taped to the wall. "Specifically--ah, right! Echizen's playing in it, I _have_ to be here." 

 

There’s a long, not entirely pleased pause. “If you just wanted to play Echizen, you could have stayed in Japan.”

 

Yukimura stares down at his phone for a moment, wondering if he heard that correctly, then shrugs and twirls his spoon slowly around in his fingers. "I don't just want to play Echizen. It's just the first time I'm going to get to since…you know."

 

Sanada frowns, and tries to figure out how to close a search engine window with extremely limited success. “Are you feeling up to it? I won’t be there after, is there going to be someone to make sure you’re all right?”

 

It's probably irrational to be so annoyed over this particular line of questioning. Yukimura's lips purse, and he stalks his way back down into the living room, trying not to start pacing with the phone. "I'm fine. I'm not going to keel over because of a 13 year old, Genichirou. I'm planning to _win._ " His gaze flickers over to Niou, and he sighs in defeat, shrugging. "My agent's always around if something _does_ happen, though." 

 

“I just don’t want you to throw yourself into it too hard. Is your back completely healed? Have you been eating?” Sometimes, Sanada can hear the words he’s saying without being able to stop them. This, unfortunately, is one of those times. He can hear Yukimura getting more annoyed, hear himself being more intrusive, and just keeps _going_ for some reason.

 

"You are _literally_ the only person that asks me things like this anymore and there's a reason for that, you know." That comes out too snippy without a doubt, but Yukimura can't find the urge to care right then. "But for your information, I'm eating right now," he adds. "Raw cookie dough."

 

Sanada’s hand balls into a fist. “That’s...fine,” he manages to say, trying not to feel the vein trying to pop out of his forehead. “I have no problem with this.”

 

Rebelliously, Yukimura scoops out another spoonful of said cookie dough when he huddles back up around it. "Good! Because it's _delicious_." He chews, swallows, and adds irritably, "If Kaede wants me in a tournament, she can call me herself. Since when is she too shy to ask me for things, anyway? Why is she asking _you?"_

 

Sanada attempts to ignore the insinuation that he’d be the last person anyone would turn to. “She said she didn’t think you’d agree,” he says stiffly, trying not to think about all of that junk going into Yukimura’s body. “I told her I’d ask so she didn’t have to hear you say no.”

 

"That's so self-defeating. I mean, I'm still saying no, but come _on_ , Kaede," Yukimura mutters, then shrugs it off. "Well, whatever. You can tell her I'm sorry, but I'm just too busy. She knows that I can't just come home randomly like that."

 

“Would it be so bad to come home for a weekend? Not the tournament--but any time?” Sanada sighs, and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t call to chastise. Sorry. I just want to make sure that you’re...well. Happy. Feeling well.”

 

" _You_ could come over here," Yukimura huffs, and glances over to Niou again to make sure that he hasn't disappeared. Yes, good. "I'm just fine. I mean…ugh, I'm not trying to be pissy. I just don't like it when you call and immediately hassle me about my health. I'm like, _so_ okay now, you know?" 

 

“I know.” Sanada pauses, and looks over at the photograph on his wall--their second year, the Nationals win, and Yukimura’s smile. “I just want you to stay that--”

 

Niou grabs the phone before Yukimura can say anything else, and switches his voice over to a clone of Yukimura’s. “Sanada,” he says crisply, “send me a dick pic or you’re a _fag_.” Then he hangs up, dancing immediately out of Yukimura’s reach.

 

Yukimura's mouth hangs agape, his eyes wide and stunned for a long moment. " _Niou!!_ " he finally shrieks, lurching over to claw his way up Niou's side and make a valiant effort to grab that damned phone. "Don't _do that!_ You can't use my voice for that, that's _weird_ , you're awful and I'm going to _kill you!_ "

 

“Puri!”

 

Niou shoves the phone in his pocket, and climbs over the back of the sofa, flipping back behind it to make a twirl towards the kitchen. “I bet he’s googling it right now, don’t you think? Dear Internet, what is a d i k k u p i k k u?”

 

A sharp hiss follows that, and Yukimura lunges after him, grabbing the back of his shirt. " _Gross!_ Now he's going to be mad at me for interrupting a perfectly fine conversation for something like that--uggggh, why do I even let you stay here, give me back the phone!" 

 

He gets a hand in Niou's pocket…and the phone isn't there. His eyes narrow, and his hand clenches into a fist. " _Niou_." 

 

“Piyo!”

 

Niou grins, and pulls the phone out from behind his ear, just to twitch his fingers and make it vanish again. “Holy shit, where is it going? Oh, there it--nope, gone again!”

 

He pauses when the phone beeps, and holds it in the air. “I’ll give it back if you let me see what he sent.”

 

 _Magic does not exist, Niou is just fucking with me, my phone is not going to end up disappearing for real, it's going to be_ somewhere--

 

Yukimura huffs out a breath. How bad can it be to let Niou see? Honestly, he doubts Sanada sent anything interesting, anyway… " _Fine._ " His arms fold firmly over his chest. "Just make sure you give it back."

 

Triumphant, Niou flips open the phone, putting his body between himself and Yukimura, then blinks.

 

“Huh.”

 

Quietly, he flips the phone shut, and passes it over. “Yagyuu’s is bigger.”

 

Yukimura stares, and for a moment, just wordlessly accepts the phone. "W…what?" he finally manages, not even _daring_ to look. Did Sanada actually do it? The idea that he _did_ kind of…no, shut up, hormones, now isn't the time. More importantly--"How in the _world_ can Yagyuu's be bigger?!"

 

Niou snorts. “I mean, it’s _nice_ ,” he offers, with a shrug. “I’m not saying he’s lose out to most people, it looks like a lot of fun. But Yagyuu is _definitely_ bigger. Hey, this is perfect, you’d probably seriously hate having sex with Yagyuu.” He probably _wouldn’t_ , but anything else and he’d sound like he’s _trying_ to get them to hook up.

 

The look of horror on Yukimura's face is as clear as day. "You're right about that! Why would I _ever_ want it to be bigger? You're the one that's weird and likes it like that, you can keep your nerd boyfriend and his really big dick."

 

A follow-up message blinks on Yukimura’s screen.

 

**To:** **幸村清市**

**From:** **真田源一郎**

**Subject: ??????**

**Did I do it right?**

 

“I will, thanks. He’s actually way better at using it than you’d expect.”

 

"I'm going to murder you,"Yukimura cheerfully informs Niou before stalking off with his phone. How does he even _reply_ to that?

 

**To: Gen**

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: Yes**

**I'll be saving that, thank you very much**

 

Best not to tell him that it was Niou that requested it. It's best not to tell Sanada most things about Niou, actually.

 

~

 

If Miyuki hadn't begged for this, it would have never happened. 

 

That, Chitose wryly acknowledges, is why he ends up doing most things that he dislikes nowadays. Miyuki's persistence is something he can't ignore, especially when she begs and pleads for weeks, and talks about how all she wants to do is this _one thing…_  

 

Even if Tokyo isn't exactly a preferred destination, he still finds himself relenting all the same. 

 

Looking at the tournament bracket sounds like it would ruin what little fun is left in this game, so Chitose refrains. His only weary thought is that Miyuki doesn't end up too upset if winning isn't in the stars--

 

\--at least, that's the last normal thought he has until he steps into the stadium's locker room, and finds himself face to face with the one person that is sure to make things less about appeasing his sister, and more about…

 

Ah, no. His thoughts aren't going to go there, and he is certainly not going to stare for too much longer at Tachibana Kippei's back. 

 

 _Just let me die,_ Chitose thinks, and heaves a long sigh as he lets the door swing shut behind him. "It's been awhile, Kippei." 

 

There isn’t a moment in his past, present, or future that Tachibana would not recognize that voice. He freezes in place for a second, then straightens up, a tenseness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there a moment before. 

 

Seeing the name (with an incredible amount of relief) on a tournament bracket and hearing his given name in that familiar lilting voice are very, very different things as far as his emotions are concerned.

 

“Chitose,” he answers, turning around with all of the easy confidence he can muster. “Just when I was worried there wouldn’t be much of a real fight here.”

 

Chitose thinks that he does a remarkable job of not staring mournfully at Tachibana's hair. At least it's still freshly blond. It could be longer. And wilder. And _everywhere_. 

 

 _Shhh, that's enough, Mind._ "It isn't as if this is a ranking tournament," he points out without skipping too many beats, and ventures further in, setting his bag down onto an empty bench. "Now I can see why Miyuki was constantly asking me to come with her, though. She wanted to see An-chan." 

 

Tachibana smiles briefly. “She must have done a better job hiding it than An did. Seeing the two of you is all she’s talked about for a week.” Stretching finished, he reaches for one tennis shoe, tying it tightly. “I’m just glad you decided to show up.”

 

 _What an evil child,_ Chitose darkly thinks of his sister, even as he smiles. "Ah, being in the dark about a woman's plans. That's exactly what I enjoy." 

 

He rakes a hand through his hair, and decides to just not think about what else his sister and An have been _obviously_ planning. "You won't be terribly happy when you lose," he idly adds. "Sorry about it in advance."

 

Tachibana laughs, and shucks his sweatshirt into his locker, shutting it with a firm shove of his arm. “I never am. And you’re never sorry.” He claps Chitose on the shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Your eye is better?”

 

Tachibana's touch is so disgustingly nostalgic that it nearly fells him. That's highly unfortunate, because for moment, breathing is somewhat difficult, and Chitose thanks every god in the universe that he's being slow about changing. If his shirt had been off, and Tachibana's hand had been on his bare skin-- _good bye, world._  

 

"…It's fine." The lie, at least, snaps him back to being somewhat grounded, and Chitose's smile barely falters. "Your hair looks awful." 

 

Tachbana snorts. “You should have seen what it looked like after I shaved it.” He runs a hand over the short spikes, making sure they’re not going in any crazy directions--the product should help with that--and wipes his hand on his loose shirt. Not a team jersey today, which feels strange after so long on Fudomine, but just a regular set of practice clothes. “Yours looks the same as ever. Guess some things never change, huh?” _And so many others do when I wish they wouldn’t._

 

 _I don't want to know what it looked like after you shaved it, ever._ "Stagnation is neither healthy or uncommon," Chitose mildly says, tugging his own shirt off and shaking his hair out afterwards. "But some of us are more prone to it. At least that doesn't seem to be you." 

 

Slowly, Tachibana shakes his head, letting his hand fall to his side. “I forgot what it was like to have you constantly throwing me off balance. See you on the courts, Chitose.” He shrugs, and explains, “Got to help An warm up. Say hi to Miyuki-chan for me?”

 

"You can do it yourself." _If she's still alive after I toss her off of a bridge for doing this to me_. 

 

Tachibana purposely messes up Miyuki’s hair when she runs up to him. “Lion-nii-chan! Your hair is so short and weird!”

 

“Missed you too, brat,” Tachibana says with a grin, crushing her briefly in a hug. “You know, An and I aren’t going to go easy on you.”

 

“Good!” Miyuki pulls back, swinging her racquet up onto her shoulder, looking every inch a Chitose with her dark skin, long limbs, and sparkling eyes. “I won my last three tournaments. I can’t wait to take you on!”

 

Tachibana raises one eyebrow. “Great. Make sure you make it all the way to the finals, then!”

 

“The finals might not be as easy as you think, Tachibana Kippei,” a deep voice says, and Sanada Genichirou strides onto the side of the court, next to Yukimura Kaede.

 

Yukimura Kaede, for all the fire normally in her eyes, looks decidedly sulky today. The irritated little sigh that leaves her lips is less about the company she's keeping, and more aimed at the world at large. "We're obviously going to win," she says, uncrossing her arms to shove a long, dark curl behind her ear from where it escapes from its ponytail. "I mean, if we're going to talk _tournament_ records--"

 

"Nii-chan, is that even _allowed?_ " is An's hiss as she suddenly appears behind Tachibana, grabbing the back of his shirt and tugging. "They're not brother and sister!" 

 

"I can hear you, you know! _My_ brother is a professional tennis player, but Sanada stood in for him at Rikkai and he can do the same here--"

 

"That _has_ to be against the rules," An sniffs, folding her arms. 

 

Kaede scowls. "It's been approved, _you're_ just upset because you're going to _lose!"_

 

Tachibana lays an arm across his sister’s shoulders firmly. “Just be grateful that you didn’t need to use a substitute to stand a chance of winning, An,” he says, giving Sanada a wary nod that’s returned in kind. “Just focus on what we came here to do. Worry about your own plan and your own rules.”

 

“An-nee-chan!” Miyuki’s eyes are alight, and she grabs for An’s hand. “No matter what happens, let’s go out for mala hot pot after, okay?”

 

The glare An fixes upon Kaede is mercilessly, but when it's ignored (infuriating!!!), she just sighs and smiles at Miyuki instead, clasping the younger girl's hand within her own. "Mm, sure! We'll be in the finals, _obviously._ " 

 

"Ahh, are we having arguments already?" 

 

With the interesting part of the bracket already revealed courtesy of a locker room, there was little stopping Chitose from idly glancing at the rest--and predictably, it's less than thrilling. Logically, that would be why the only other outstanding team would be chatting with Tachibana. _Interesting. Is this a brother-in-law qualification, I wonder?_

 

An beams, and quickly turns to launch herself at Chitose. "Senri-nii-chan! Ahh, somehow you got _taller!"_

 

"Somehow," Chitose says, side-eyeing his own sister with vague irritation. _You did this. This is your fault._ "Hello, Sanada, Yukimura-chan." 

 

Kaede huffs, and tosses her hair before whirling on her heel to presumably go have a full-out tennis battle with a wall. An makes a face at her back.

 

“Chitose.” Sanada gives him a grave nod. He considers apologizing for Kaede, then thinks better of it. If this is how she wants to be known, it will at least give her some reason to not lose. Having an attitude like that as a loser is untenable. As a winner, it becomes merely annoying. “Let’s have a good match in the finals."

 

Miyuki beams at her older brother-- _this is DEFINITELY all my fault, you’re welcome!_ \--and slings her racquet onto her shoulder. “The one who wins deserves it, right, Nii-chan?”

 

“Sometimes,” Tachibana says under his breath, and tugs An away from Chitose and towards the warm-up courts. “Don’t get too excited, we have a lot of hard matches before we get to the finals.”

 

"Ugh, Nii-chan, you _know_ it's not going to be _that_ hard," An whispers, latching to her brother's arm instead after tossing Miyuki a wink over her shoulder. 

 

Chitose sees it, and his teeth set in a brief, slow grind. How wonderful. Their sisters are plotting against them. How aware is Tachibana about this, he wonders?

 

 _It doesn't matter_ , he dismissively tells himself, and offers up a smile to Sanada instead as he turns away, a hand on Miyuki's back to urge her to follow. "Don't lose; it would be a shame to miss yet another chance to play you, Sanada," he hums, because it's much easier to talk to ancient samurai from Rikkai than it is someone he's been avoiding for what feels like an eternity now. 

 

“Ahh, you as well.” Sanada extends a hand, not giving Kaede’s pathway another look. “I would be surprised not to see you in the finals, but I’ve been surprised by that before. Give it your best today, Chitose.”

 

There’s always been something slightly amusing, maybe even intriguing about Chitose. A shame he can’t use his Saiki Kanpatsu no Kiwami in a doubles tournament like this one, but as interesting a man as he is, there will certainly be something else fascinating to see on the court. “At least none of us should have any trouble making it to the end.”

 

Some pathetic part of him hopes that Tachibana glances back at the exact moment to see him take Sanada's hand and squeeze. "Theoretically," Chitose airily says. "Predicting the outcome of a match isn't that easy, though. I hope your own partner calms down a bit first." 

 

Pulling away _might_ be something that he turns into an ordeal, with his fingers brushing at the inside of Sanada's palm as Chitose offers him another little smile. "Have fun." 

 

Sanada changes whatever thought he’d been having to _use the bathroom immediately_ , and gives Chitose a stiff nod. At least he isn’t up first with Kaede, and has time to go take care of a minor issue before they all meet on the court. This is good; it’s like playing Yukimura, getting unfairly riled up beforehand and needing to leave all of that pent-up aggression on the court.

 

Sanada slips away to the other side of the locker rooms, and dials 27 numbers, knowing without looking that it’s around 11pm in England.

 

"Mmnn, hi, Gen." The greeting is a sleepy one when Yukimura picks up the phone, and a yawn that's obviously muffled into the palm of his hand makes its way through, too. "I swear I wasn't going to go to bed before you called, you just waited longer than usual…oh, is this the tournament day? Tell Kaede to destroy everyone." 

 

“She doesn’t need any help. She’s already terrifying and enraging everyone here. Like you, but with less finesse.” Sanada’s voice softens, and he rubs his hand on his thigh, getting rid of the lingering brush of Chitose’s fingers. “Sorry to wake you, get some rest. I just wanted to hear your voice before winning.”

 

"No, no, it's fine. You can always wake me up." Yukimura flops over onto his stomach, briefly pressing his face down into the pillow. "You better win. You're already Kaede's brother-in-law, she's gonna be really ticked off if you don't live up to that title." 

 

“She’s already disappointed that I’m not you. But we’ll win.” The confidence in Sanada’s voice is complete. “None of our strong opponents are used to playing doubles like this. We’ll win.”

 

“Five minutes to the first match! Morimoto siblings versus Tachibana siblings, five minutes!”

 

“I’ve got to go.” Sanada pauses, then adds in an embarrassed mutter, “Sleep well, Seiichi. Dream if you can.”

 

"Have fun, and make sure to drive home the spirit of Rikkai!" A pause, and Yukimura adds quietly, "Thank you for doing this, Genichirou. I'm sorry I can't be there." 

 

“It’s fine. This time I can cover for you without fear. It’s almost like a vacation.” And that was almost like a joke for Sanada, who quickly hangs up before he can get distracted by Yukimura’s tinkling laughter. 

 

There, mental focus accomplished. Sanada tugs his cap lower, and heads into the stadium, eyes intent on the surrounding crowd as the first match begins.

 

~

 

Tachibana Kippei, even now, is good at surprising Chitose. 

 

There has obviously not been a moment of rest in Tachibana's training. No matter how Chitose had heard rumors of how he'd given up tennis for some time…well, all of that lost time has been made up, _obviously._  

 

It heaves up half a dozen interesting emotions, actually.

 

It starts with the fact that Chitose can't quite focus. It ends with the fact that no, of course his eye hasn't healed. Tachibana doesn't need to know that, but spending more time with that as the goal and less the art of playing tennis is less effective. 

 

_This doesn't count, this isn't important, this doesn't mean anything._

 

It's just difficult to catch his breath when his chest is so tight and his mind is so thoroughly elsewhere, that's all. 

 

"Game, Tachibana pair! 5 games to 4!" 

 

"Sorry, Miyuki," Chitose hears himself mutter, and shoves his hair out of his face for what feels like the umpteenth time. Another big problem that he has to unfortunately admit to is the fact that even looking at Tachibana is troublesome. Maybe being entirely blind would be something better in the long run.

 

Miyuki shakes her head, and tightens her ponytail through the hole in her cap. “Don’t lose focus, Nii-chan. Worry about _their_ blind spots, An-nee-chan’s backhand is really weak.”

 

Tachibana takes a deep breath. His next serve is a strong one, right to Chitose’s good side with more power than Chitose _enjoys_ returning. His resolve doesn’t waver, even though An is probably about to kill him for what he’s about to do. Lunging quickly, he throws himself to the left, but his racquet doesn’t rise. 

 

The pain of the ball spikes through his head, feeling as if it had hit his entire central nervous system instead of just his eye. The shock takes him a minute to recover from, and his left hand comes slowly up to make sure he hasn’t actually _lost_ the eye. “This,” he grinds out, ignoring An’s pale face to stare at Chitose’s stunned one, “is my atonement!”

 

"N-Nii-chan! Are you all right?! Don't _do_ something like that--"

 

Logic dictates being far more concerned about the state of Tachibana's health and perhaps mental state if he's going to just _do_ something like that, but…ah, no. _That's just him,_ Chitose wistfully thinks, and subtly sways. "Kippei…"

 

The moment is cut short when An grabs at her brother's arm, her breath worried and short. "You're going to kill yourself, stop being so dumb and overdramatic, Senri-nii-chan doesn't want you to lose your eye, _god!"_

 

 _You don't know that,_ Chitose idly thinks for one dark moment, and then forces himself to look away again. The longer he _looks_ , the more he's going to want to leap over the net and grab Tachibana and eat him alive. _That wasn't in any way fair._

 

Tachibana shakes off his sister with a rough shake of his arm, and prowls over to the other side of the court, close to the net, staring at Chitose out of one eye as the other slowly swells shut. A bit of blood stains his fingertips, but that’s just from the area around the eye, not his eyeball itself. Even if it had fallen out right there on the court, there’s no way it could have taken away the sudden, inescapable peace he feels, seeing Chitose’s face. “Now,” he says, quiet and intense, “we can have a match, Chitose.”

 

Words are meaningless to Chitose. He uses them as a weapon when it suits him, and ignores the meanings behind them when they’re used by other people. Actions matter, dramatic gestures matter, and they’ve always been the same like that. _I have just as much chance of losing my vision as you did,_ he thinks, irrationally excited by the idea. _And I caused both of those injuries. It’s only fair._ “It’s your serve.”

 

It would probably be strange to most, if not all people, how much Chitose wants to simultaneously punch and kiss the idiot on the other side of the court. 

 

He heaves out a sigh, his smile wry. "I really am in my own head today, aren't I," he murmurs, settling back at the baseline and giving the ball a half-hearted bounce. "It took me this long to realize how much you had already figured out. You really haven't changed, Kippei." 

 

 _Good, thank god for that, if you ever change I'll probably just put us both out of our misery._  

 

His serve could be better, but Chitose blissfully allows himself leeway with the circumstances at hand, especially when it still clears the net, fast and true. "Let's keep that feeling going, then, Kippei!"

 

“All day long.” For just a moment, he hears his own voice turning to _bai_ and _tai_ and _batten_ , and the warm breeze almost smells like the shores of Kumamoto. Tachibana lets out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a growl, and smashes the ball back to Chitose. When Miyuki dashes forward to return it, the surprise is enough to make Tachibana shake his head, startled at that change in the outcome. 

 

 _This is doubles, Tachibana Kippei,_ he tells himself firmly. _You don’t get to forget that just because you want to spend the whole time making up with Chitose_. Of course, part of it might have been that he hadn’t really been able to see Miyuki out of that eye, speedy little brat that she is. “An! Grab the lob!” he calls, loping back to a better spot for returns.

 

An is very certain that her brother is _insane_ \--but this is a much better atmosphere, isn't it? "Got it, Nii-chan!"

 

A lob returned with alob is one of Chitose's favorites to return, courtesy of a long reach that makes it easy. That doesn't make him resent the fact that it isn't Tachibana's lob any less-- _as if he would hit something like this; sorry, An-chan, you're just not your brother._

 

Leaping up to return that shot is easy, and mm, he doesn't feel awful in the slightest about it bouncing into Tachibana's new blind spot. _You are far, far kinder than I am, Kippei._

 

Tachibana knows he probably looks like a wild man, whipping his head from side to side to get the most out of his vision, but he can’t bring himself to care too much. He lunges for that ball, and slices it back across the net, driving for the space between Chitose and Miyuki, hoping for some doubles-confusion. The fact that the ball hits his blind side perfectly feels right. Ignoring the medics who want to drag him off the court, doubtless to be fitted for an eyepatch or something, also feels right. “Come on, Chitose!” he yells, settling into a low stance. “Show me that passion!”

 

“Lion-nii-chan is too intense for a youth doubles tournament,” Miyuki complains.

 

"No, he's perfect," Chitose sighs, rocking his weight backwards briefly before gleefully catching the ball on the highest part of its bounce to send it back. 

 

"Oi, Nii-chan! Let me actually play, you're just stealing everything now!" An irritably huffs. "Which is even more annoying after you hurt yourself, you know!!"

 

With what can only be called resentment, Tachibana relinquishes to An her portion of the court. She can return Miyuki’s balls; Tachibana has absolutely no doubt that Chitose will continue to hit to him, and only to him. _That’s how it should be,_ he thinks fiercely.

 

Well, no. It should be both of them on the same side, dashing and leaping and knowing exactly where the other will move. It should be the two of them on the sidelines, arms around each others’ shoulders, laughing at how much _better_ they are than the rest of the competition, leading their team to a National victory, being scouted, moving to Australia. It should be the two of them doing homework, Chitose helping him with math, him helping Chitose with History, Tachibana cooking and Chitose cleaning after.

 

It had taken months to learn how to be both sides of every task instead of his designated half of two of them. The surging rage and frustration of that time courses through him, and the next ball leaves a scorch mark on the court as he snarls.

 

"15 all!" 

 

"Whoops," Chitose exhales, his eyebrows raising as that ball hits the chain link fence behind him with enough force to shake it. _I wonder what made you angry enough to hit like that, Kippei._

 

Whatever it is, it must be good. If only he could have just a _tidbit_ of Tachibana's thoughts. That would answer so many questions, Chitose blissfully thinks. If he were playing fair, maybe he would still care about An's presence on the court, but…no, that's just not necessary.

 

Miyuki snatches the ball from her brother’s pocket, glaring at him as she stalks back to the baseline. “It’s _doubles_ , nii-chan!” she hisses, and draws back her arm, sweat dripping off of her shoulders and down her arms from before her brother decided to make this a stupid singles match with some excess baggage on the courts. She slams into an overhead serve, right to An. They can at least _try_ to play, even if her brother is having one of his Moments.

 

"Ah, sorry, sorry." He's not very sorry at all. _You're the one who dragged me here, Miyuki; you can deal with it._

 

"Oh, _finally!"_ One would _think_ that if anyone knew what a damned doubles match was, it was their brothers--but nope!An huffs, and dives after that ball before her brother can, narrowly returning it as a slice across the court. 

 

Miyuki lunges for that ball, and slides into a swift backhand, skinning her knee on the court as she does, getting up without paying attention. She sees the split-second when Tachibana leaps. “Nii-chan! It’s you!”

 

It is.

 

Tachibana roars, slamming into an overhead smash volley with his entire downward trajectory, throwing all of his weight behind the ball. Chitose is precise, sure, but that’s _not_ all there is to tennis. “ _Chitose!_ ”

 

These are the times that what should be pure enjoyment simply turns to nerves and irritation and _anger_ , all because he's forgotten his disadvantage. 

 

Anger never really surfaces with Chitose like Tachibana's always did (like it still does). With Chitose, it's fast-burning until it snuffs itself out to something cold and chilly instead, and he's never felt that faster than when he nearly misses this shot--a shot _given_ to him--just because he has to completely twist to even see it. 

 

His forehand connects--narrowly. There's too much weight there, not because power is superior, but because he didn't _bargain_ for it in time, and the _thwack_ of the ball hitting the net is enough to make his grip turn white-knuckled. 

 

 _Well, that's disappointing._ He turns away with a flip of his hair out of his face, and wonders if any small amount of Tachibana sounding like he's back in Kyushu again will help.

 

“Game and match, Tachibana siblings! Seven games to five!”

 

Tachibana feels An grab him in a hug, and returns it mechanically. At least she seems to understand, and shoves him in Chitose’s direction as they shake hands with their opponents over the net. 

 

Maybe Tachibana squeezes his hand a little too tight, but he’s always teased Chitose about strengthening his upper body anyway. It’ll do him good. “You did well,” he says, trying not to sound choked up. “Ah...nice job, Miyuki.” 

 

He doesn’t shake her hand, not when Chitose is still squeezing his.

 

Tachibana grabbing his hand like that right now is too much, and Chitose relishes it. Not that he can _look_ at Tachibana all that well at the moment, because if he does, it's going to end in something highly appropriate, and isn't this supposed to be a family-friendly event? "You're incredible, as always," he sighs, his fingers curling tightly enough against Tachibana's hand that he's fairly sure he'll break his own bones. "What a shame." 

 

"That's a weird thing to say," An scolds him underneath her breath, and Chitose artfully ignores her. 

 

Tachibana pulls away, giving Miyuki a nod and a smile. “Good job, An,” he tells her, looping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing tightly enough that she’ll probably complain. It’s fine. Chitose was squeezing his hand like he didn’t want to let go, but it’s fine.

 

Back on the court, Miyuki rubs an arm across her eyes. “Sorry, Nii-chan,” she mutters. “I know you really wanted to beat him. I was too slow.”

 

"Mmnn. You're being silly, Miyuki," Chitose murmurs, reaching down to gently tug on her ponytail. "You're allowed to blame your older brother for messing up, you know. That's all that it was. I'm sorry." 

 

His hand actually hurts a little bit, courtesy of Tachibana's grip. _Good_ , he thinks to himself, lightly digging his fingers into his own palm. 

 

It’s not easy to keep herself from crying, but Miyuki swallows down the lump in her throat, turning to bury her face in Chitose’s shirt for just one comforting minute. “Sorry,” she says again, muffled by his side. “But we can still cheer them on in the finals, right? And we can all go out for mala bowls, right?”

 

 _Jumping in front of a train sounds much more appealing._ "Whatever you want," Chitose says instead, because he can fake his way through one dinner. Maybe. No, he has to _._ He exhales a slow breath, and loops an arm around his sister to guide her further away from the courts. He stops outside of the main part of the crowds and crouches down to be closer to her height, his hands on her shoulders. "Hey. _You_ were amazing. It's not your fault that I'm not exactly at your level anymore. If it were just you playing against all of these girls, it's obvious who would win." 

 

It’s not easy to meet her brother’s eyes when Miyuki is pretty sure she’s going to lose it at any second and start crying. “Stupid,” she mutters, thunking gently against his chest. “You’re the best. Doubles is just...it’s _really_ hard. I don’t know how you do this all the time.” She swallows hard, and looks down. “I thought I’d be better at it. You and Lion-nii-chan always made it look so easy.”

 

 _Ah, yes, throw me onto the train tracks anew._ "It isn't that you're lacking skill," Chitose gently tells her, wrapping both arms around her to give her a firm squeeze. "You have to be with a partner that works well with you…and that you don't have to cover for. Even though we know how to play with one another, it's not easy for you to cover up for all of my mistakes. Given all that you had to do, it's amazing that we took as many games as we did off of them." 

 

Miyuki nods, and sniffs. “Sorry. Ugh, me and An just wanted you two to _talk_ , you were supposed to do it at the Nationals but you _quit_. W-why did he walk into the ball like that?”

 

Chitose stifles a groan. "Because he's an idiot," escapes before he can censor himself, and he winces, shrugging. "It's not important. This isn't really fair, you know; what if I don't want to talk to him?" 

 

“Yeah, okay.” Miyuki grabs his hand, tugging him down, and taps his face gently with her other hand. “Get out of your head, nii-chan. Come watch the finals with me.”

 

"But I _don't_ want to talk to him," Chitose mutters, sighing as he lets his sister tug at him all the same. "They're going to lose, you know. Does that sound like something you want to watch?" 

 

“Yukimura Kaede wants to go pro,” Miyuki says, determined. “I need to know everything about her. Ah, plus, isn’t Sanada one of the ones you said you wanted to watch?”

 

"I only play tennis with you now," Chitose breezily points out. "That was the condition, so watching Sanada is unnecessary. Anyway, Miyuki, I understand wanting to see more of Yukimura Kaede, but if your loyalty towards Tezuka ever starts to waver, we're going to have to have words."

 

Miyuki steps on his foot very firmly. It’s a good life choice now, before he changes into his geta. “You’re so gross! Save us seats after you change, you’re always so fast.” Just because Yukimura Kaede is pretty and pale and _really_ good at tennis and has a light in her eyes doesn’t mean anything!

 

"Ow, ow, ow, fine, just injure your big brother even more," Chitose groans, faking a limp for a few paces until he flits off to the locker room again. 

 

His prayers to be alone are, predictably, unanswered. Tachibana Kippei's back muscles are, as per usual, incredibly unfair, and Chitose glares solidly at them for a second before he gets the hell out of his sweaty clothes. If he says nothing and escapes quickly, not only will the finals not be delayed, but he will also come away decidedly unfulfilled. That's the name of the game, as far as he's concerned. 

 

Tachibana doesn’t see Chitose when he comes in. He does, however, smell him immediately, which should probably be weirder and grosser than it is, but it’s a _distinctive_ smell. Besides, the sound of that familiar stride would have done it a second later, anyway. “Hey, Chitose. Good game.” He grabs a wet towel, and starts rubbing himself down as preparation for changing into a clean shirt for the finals. Chafing is always the enemy. “Apologize to Miyuki for me if I don’t see her, will you? I wasn’t playing good doubles.”

 

_That's it? That's literally all you're going to give me?_

 

Chitose yanks his jeans on and shrugs as he buttons them one-handedly. The faster he gets out of here, the better. "She doesn't care, but I'll let her know." 

 

He just can't keep his mouth shut, unfortunately. "How did you know?" he blurts out, and immediately wants to bang his head into a locker. "Is it that obvious still that I…ugh, never mind." It's not like he wants this conversation. He _doesn't_ want to talk to Tachibana, not right now. 

 

“What I couldn’t figure out about you after one game would fit in a matchbox,” Tachibana says gruffly, and yanks the shirt on over his head. It’s dry and breathable, so at least that’s one thing he won’t have to worry about when going up against Sanada and that little hellbeast. “...I don’t know what it was. No one thing. Just you.”

 

Yes, this is literally the reason why he didn't want to talk to Tachibana about…anything. Chitose licks his lips, annoyed, frustrated with himself and everything that this situation entails, and shoves his hair out of his face after pulling a clean shirt on. "Is your eye all right?" He _has_ to know that. He doesn't need to know anything else.

 

“I don’t know. Probably.” Tachibana huffs out a laugh. “Do you know how long I had to wait for you to make a hard enough shot? Otherwise it wouldn’t have meant anything.”

 

"You're an idiot." It's cathartic to say that, at least. Chitose heaves a long, heavy sigh. "It was unnecessary." _It wasn't._ "I'm not even playing tennis anymore, but you are. Don't do something stupid like that again, or it's your career on the line." 

 

Tachibana shrugs, and shoulders his bag. “That was never more important to me than you were,” he says, and leaves the locker room, heading out for his next match against the Sanada-Yukimura pair.

 

Chitose has to resign himself to being late to the match and sitting for a solid five minutes after that. 

 

Miyuki, it seems, is the one that gets the good seats, though she's fuming by the time he appears. "Sorry, sorry, I'm useless and flighty, tell me before I forget." Watching Tachibana play does not appeal (he can't, he can't do it _right now_ ), but that's what artful avoidance is all about. "Is An-chan holding her own?" 

 

“Ehhh.” Miyuki tries to look optimistic. “Lion-nii-chan is. I think An-nee-chan is just mad that Kaede has good hair _and_ is good at tennis.” 

 

A ball hurtles by the Tachibanas faster than Miyuki can really watch, and she whistles low under her breath. “They’re... _very_ good, Nii-chan.” Unspoken is the addendum, _We probably would have lost._

 

"They've played together quite a bit before." Kaede certainly has An beaten at the net, Chitose observes, sighing to himself. She's _fast_ , but there's no denying that her focus is not entirely on the game. There's a lot of sulking and stalking going on even though they're obviously winning. "You have good hair, too, don't worry. An-chan just needs to stop bleaching hers." 

 

“An-nee-chan likes to put a lot of stuff in it,” Miyuki says rebelliously, tugging her ponytail tighter through the hat. “I don’t _care_ what my hair looks like. I just like it out of my face. That whole family cares too much about their hair. Do you think An-nee-chan is using skin whitening creams? They both look so pale up here in Tokyo.” She winces as a slice bounds directly into Tachibana’s blind spot, then sighs in relief when he slams it back across the net.

 

It wouldn't be the first time that Tachibana was that vain. Chitose rolls his eyes. "Probably. Charming, how they've learned to sound like they're from Tokyo, isn't it?" 

 

There's a thrill of anticipation when Kaede dives for Tachibana's shot and misses, but, ah, of course Sanada is there. Chitose sighs and settles back, bored in an instant. "If it weren't a doubles match," he reasons, "you would have beaten Yukimura-chan today. Maybe you should start coming up to Tokyo and Kanagawa tournaments." 

 

Miyuki furrows her brow and leans forward, analyzing the match carefully. “I was worried about them,” she muses, “but I think you’re right. Do you think Mom would let me come by myself on the shinkansen? Or you could come with me!”

 

"Neither Tokyo or Kanagawa really suit me." He'll probably end up coming, eventually; that's a given. "Don't ask Mom, ask Nana, she likes hearing about how you'll win everything."  

 

“I _do_ plan on winning everything,” Miyuki muses, then frowns when another ball goes straight past Kaede--only to be rescued by Sanada. “Seriously, who says you’re allowed to pick and choose the strongest guy around instead of playing with your brother? Isn’t that, like, the point?”

 

"Well, I suppose they are _like_ family…" Chitose sighs, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. "I have to agree, though, this is fairly close to cheating. I wonder if Kippei could win against Yukimura Seiichi…"

 

“I heard he’s _bad_ at doubles. Maybe this is a trick because she just wants to win? Frustrating!” Miyuki leans forward on her folded arms. “Hey, Nii-chan, does that mean you’re rooting for An and Lion-nii-chan?”

 

"I'm rooting for An-chan. Kippei can rot." 

 

“Nii-chan, you’re a _giant_ idiot.”

 

"Hmm? How so? I'm not the one that walked deliberately into a tennis ball and tried to take my own eye out." 

 

Miyuki huffs, and deliberately moves one seat away from her brother. If he wants to be a complete lunatic idiot, he can do it on his own. “I hope the mala bowls are as spicy as the website said. I hope An-nee-chan likes mala.”

 

Chitose doesn't even blink. "Maybe I'll invite Sanada and Yukimura-chan. Then it can _really_ be a celebration." 

 

Miyuki’s teeth grind, and she folds her arms, stormily watching Sanada serve so powerfully that An’s racquet goes flying and she stumbles back into her brother’s arms. “They won’t want to come with us. Yukimura-kun is too high and mighty for that.”

 

"It's okay if you're too shy to ask, Miyuki. I'll do it for you, I know how to deal with princess complexes." 

 

“Of course you’d know! You have one!”

 

Chitose beams as he hauls Miyuki back over next to him with a lean arm thrown about her shoulders. "I have no idea what you're talking about! Ahh, at least my little sister has good taste, first Tezuka, now a member of the Yukimura family…how _classy_." 

 

“I do not have good taste!” Miyuki protests, squirming unsuccessfully against his hold. “I do not have any taste, you’re making it up! Don’t tell Thief-nii-chan weird things, he’ll think I’m a pervert like you!”

 

"Shhh, it's okay. I know that you'll marry him one day. Until then, I'll just have to get you some sexy pictures to tide you over. I wonder when he's going to be coming back home…"

 

“ _Gross_!!! I definitely don’t want any sexy pictures! I’m _ten_!”

 

"It's never too early. It's better to get a head start." He's literally the most awful influence. "You should tell Yukimura-chan how she needs to work on her backhand over dinner, it's not anywhere near as neat as her brother's--or yours."

 

“You’re _not_ wrong about that,” Miyuki agrees begrudgingly. “Her and An-nee-chan. Her overhand is...really, really good, though. She doesn’t have that much more reach than I do, how is it that accurate?”

 

"Stronger back muscles. She can put a lot more force behind it, even though she's barely that much taller than you. Also, without that," Chitose mildly points out, "she'd find herself struggling to get up to the net in time, which is where she wants to be. She's perfected it as much as possible."

 

"Match point, Sanada-Yukimura pair!"

 

"I'm definitely inviting them to dinner," Chitose hums.

 

 _You are ruining everything!_ Miyuki thinks furiously. This is _supposed_ to be the night of the Great Reconciliation that she and An have worked at for so long, not the night that her stupid big brother asks Kaede about her stupid overhand. “Just ask her out _later_ , when do we ever get to see Lion-nii-chan and An-nee-chan?”

 

"Never, but I think that's the point." Whatever Miyuki and An have planned, he is _not_ going to play the hapless victim. 

 

“You _suck_.” Miyuki glowers, and glowers a hell of a lot more when Tachibana dives through the air to hit his ball over one last time, only to have Sanada poach it with a drive that nearly breaks the court in its intensity as Tachibana hits the ground hard.

 

“Game, set, and tournament, won by Sanada-Yukimura pair! Line up and bow!”

 

Miyuki is up instantly, grabbing at Chitose’s shirt. “You have to go make sure he’s okay, Nii-chan! I’ll talk to An, you talk to him!” Then she takes off running before he has the slightest chance to argue. It’s best when he doesn’t have a chance to argue.

 

 _Why?_ Chitose finds himself furiously thinking. _I did not come to Tokyo for this, he doesn't need me to talk to him, obviously he's fine, obviously he's--_

 

…drenched in sweat and shoving hair that he doesn't have out of his eyes because it's _habit_ and the muscles in his arms stand out when he shakes Sanada's hand--

 

Annoyingly tongue-tied, Chitose still finds himself reluctantly walking down to the court, because apparently, no matter what, staying away is absolutely impossible. 

 

Tachibana pulls away from Sanada’s firm grip (nice, not to face yet another twiggy stick that he’s afraid of breaking with just one serve) to give Chitose a weary look. “Sorry you had to see that.”

 

"Mm? But you were more than adequate." There's his voice, good. Chitose has a hard time not looking at the black eye that Tachibana gave himself (idiot), and so he glances away instead. 

 

To Sanada.

 

 _Better._ Away goes the dry mouth and heart thudding out of his chest. _This_ is doable. "My sister wanted to know if you'd all like to go out to eat after this, actually." 

 

“All of us?” Tachibana looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, but dismisses it. “Great idea. Sanada--”

 

“I appreciate it,” Sanada says, surprising himself by accepting. “Kaede-kun, you don’t mind, do you? Maybe Chitose-kun can teach you how to get more power into your backhand.”

 

Miyuki, still on the verge of protesting the intrusion, flushes at the sudden praise. Maybe Sanada isn’t _so_ bad after all.

 

Kaede's mouth opens, then shuts again as her face flushes hot. "I _guess_ that's fine," she begrudgingly mumbles. "I mean, I was just--it's not like a _big_ deal--"

 

"Miyuki-chan has the best backhand, though," An interrupts without hesitation. " _Obviously._ "

 

"Well," Kaede huffily snaps, "I wouldn't know, because I didn't just play _her_ , now did I?"

 

 _A whole evening of this, how pleasant_. "Right, anyway," Chitose lightly says, smiling over to Sanada. "A shame that you and I didn't get to play yet again. We just seem to keep missing one another…" 

 

“I warned you not to lose before the finals,” Sanada says, holding his racquet close to his hip. “You lost focus.” He hesitates, then adds, “If you want to play me, I’ll give you my phone number. I have a few evenings free every week.”

 

No, this isn’t what Miyuki wants. She locks eyes with An, trying to hint at what a _tragedy_ this all is.

 

“In any case,” Tachibana interrupts, pulling an eyepatch out of his pocket where he’d stashed it after the medic had begged him to take it, “we should get going. I know the place Miyuki wants to go, I think, and it gets fairly crowded.”

 

An exhales a strangled breath, looking warily between Chitose and her brother. This is _not_ going to be easy, because Chitose is just being _awful_ \--nothing new, but _still..._

 

Chitose, predictably, tunes everything else out. "Oh, sure, but I'm awful about paying attention to my phone. Maybe I should just give you my mailing address…"

 

"I wish Nii-chan was here," Kaede mutters sulkily, already on her phone after shoving her own racquet into Sanada's hold for carrying. 

 

“I very much prefer paper correspondence,” Sanada says in relief, and zips up both his racquet and Kaede’s without thinking much about it. It’s not exactly a foreign concept to him, to take care of a Yukimura. “Should we meet after showers?”

 

"By all means," Chitose easily agrees, and An barely stifles a groan.

 

 _Your brother_ , she thinks with an exasperated stare at Miyuki, _really is ruining this._ Then again, _her_ brother isn't exactly being helpful by rushing them all along and generally scowling the whole time.

 

Miyuki makes an effort to step on the backs of her brother’s geta with every step, which isn’t easy when his stride is roughly three times the length of hers. It’s the least she can do when he’s being _so_ obnoxious.

 

Tachibana showers quickly, giving a cursory rub of some antiseptic ointment over any places he’s scraped himself raw. Despite what he thinks is his speed in that area, everyone is waiting for him by the time he emerges, even though he hadn’t put _that_ much product in his hair. “You know where you’re going, Miyuki-chan?”

 

Miyuki fishes a piece of paper out of her pocket and presents it. “Address. Do you know Tokyo that well, Lion-nii-chan?”

 

 _Probably not,_ Tachibana thinks grimly, but Sanada takes the paper and nods. “I know the area. It isn’t difficult to reach. Let’s go.”

 

"At least someone has been making good use of his time living near a city like this," Chitose archly says.

 

"Mostly because my brother used to drag him everywhere," Kaede notes, and An can't help but notice that her eyes are on Tachibana when they aren't on her phone. _Gross, quit that!_ "It would almost be more fun getting lost, don't you think?"

 

 _Really gross!_ An thinks frantically, and narrowly resists shoving pretty, pale, perfect-haired Kaede into a mud puddle. "There's nothing fun about getting lost!"

 

"There's _everything_ fun about getting lost," Chitose hums, "but I doubt Sanada's going to let that happen." 

 

 _I am literally going to kill every girl here except Miyuki_ , An grimly thinks, and for not the first time, Chitose is placed firmly in that category. Sometimes, she still _wonders_. 

 

At least _someone_ wants Sanada in charge. His chest puffs up slightly, and he gives a short nod before setting off, letting the rest of them tag along behind. Chitose, at least, can keep up with his strides, though he notices Tachibana increasing his pace in order not to be left behind, and the girls are near-jogging.

 

It takes three trains to get to Miyuki’s restaurant, which is at least thankfully _open_. Sanada spares a glance across the street--an art supply store, which explains easily his familiarity with the area--and leads the way inside, signaling a party of six to the host.

 

Tachibana raises an eyebrow at the menu, then at Miyuki. “This is the place you wanted to come? You want to burn your mouth off?”

 

“It’s supposed to be the best mala bowls in Japan! I mean, it’s not as good as your cooking. Hey, Nii-chan, remember Lion-nii-chan’s cooking and how good it was?”

 

"Considering it's been years, no, and you don't either. At any rate, Sanada, I'm surprised you weren't the captain of Rikkai High's team this year," Chitose says with scarcely a sideways glance as a response. _I am not taking the bait, I am not talking about things that make Tachibana cute._ "I'm assuming you were too busy." 

 

An's teeth slowly grind. _He is doing this on purpose_ , she concludes with her maximum irritation levels soon to be reached. _But why?!_

 

“Rikkai High had already chosen its captain,” Sanada says, accepting a glass of water and opening the menu. “The only person that I’d stage a mutiny for wouldn’t be myself, but someone far more worthy.”

 

Miyuki groans internally. Sanada Genichirou is _boring_ , and this is _not_ the fun restaurant time she’d been expecting. 

 

Tachibana, however, doesn’t seem to agree. “As long as the right man is captain, there’s no need for rebellion,” he says, eyes flicking down the page until he finds something that doesn’t look like it’ll boil his tongue off. “Chitose, your captain last year isn’t captain this year either, right?”

 

"No, because he's too busy with his own individual tennis…but he would have been." Chitose's eyes flick over the menu, mostly uninterested, and he questions his sister's taste for the umpteenth time--except when it comes to love interests. What a shame. "Maybe if he had been captain, I would have stayed on the team."

 

"Shiraishi-san is really cute," Kaede idly remarks, sending off a text to who knows where. 

 

"Mm, isn't he?" Chitose brightly agrees. "Unfortunately, he's very taken. Don't get your hopes up, Kaede-chan." 

 

"Oh, it's okay. He's not really my type." The stare that she fixes upon Tachibana, however, could melt through steel.

 

An strangles a groan and glares at Miyuki again. _You said this would work! All he's doing is talking about_ other _boys, that's the opposite of working!_

 

Unfortunately for Kaede, she happens to be sitting directly in the blind spot caused by Tachibana’s eyepatch. “Taken, huh? I guess some people aren’t nearly as dedicated to tennis as others.”

 

“Whether a man slacks off is a measure of his own determination, not his commitments,” Sanada says firmly, and waves the waiter over to start ordering.

 

Miyuki kicks her brother under the table, and whispers up into his ear when Sanada is ordering, “Stop it, Nii-chan! You’re being really rude and weird!”

 

Chitose barely even flinches with the kick. "This is what you get for plotting against me," he hisses underneath his breath, and leaves it at that, smiling when he looks away from her to order as well. 

 

 _This is hopeless_ , An wearily thinks, because now that Chitose has decided to work against them, what chance do they really have? They should have been far more careful with this plan. 

 

"Sanada has the right idea, of course--if anything, I'd say that Shiraishi has a very balanced life…well, not that he'd let you know it, but that's part of his charm." Staring Tachibana dead in the eye when he says the next part is Chitose's new favorite thing: "That's why he's my favorite." 

 

“Your standards have fallen,” Tachibana says, pointing to a menu item for the waiter. “It used to take more than a bad dye job and a stupid catchphrase. Is that what Osaka does to you?”

 

Miyuki wants to cover her face in her hands and scream. “An-nee-chan, come to the bathroom with me,” she announces after quickly ordering something called The Volcano. “I have a girl problem.”

 

"Actually, Osaka made me realize that it took a lot more than an excellent dye job and noisy tennis to impress me," Chitose airily shoots back. 

 

"Ah, right, sure." An glares back her brother, and punches him in the arm as she gets up to trot after Miyuki. Kaede, unfortunately, looks infinitely pleased to be left alone with the boys. _Gross!_ "What are we supposed to do?" she hisses when the door shuts behind them. "They're being so mean to one another!" 

 

“I know! It’s horrible!” Miyuki takes her hat off, shaking out her hair just so she’ll have something to play with anxiously. “It doesn’t make any _sense_! Nii-chan looks at the photos and articles of your brother all the time, why would he be so mean when they’re finally in the same room? And that Yukimura girl needs to _stop_.”

 

"At least Nii-chan doesn't really seem to know that she's eyeing him like a piece of meat," An mutters, folding her arms with a heavy sigh. "Right, game plan time. I could have sworn things were going better after the match, because Senri-nii-chan seemed to have calmed down…but maybe not? Ugh, he's your brother, he's the one that does weird things! _My_ brother is just oblivious and _dumb!_ " 

 

“I keep kicking my brother,” Miyuki says sadly. “It doesn’t seem to help. He thinks we were plotting against them and now he wants to make us pay, even though all we wanted to do is get them to be friends again!”

 

"…I mean, I guess we were kind of plotting, but it wasn't _against_ them…" An trails off in frustration. "It's also really annoying that your brother seems to like Sanada so much. I think he's just doing it to make Nii-chan mad." 

 

“He’s also being _really_ weird about Shiraishi,” Miyuki says, suspicious. “I think he’s just doing it for attention, but what if I’m wrong? I’ll start watching them. Hey, you should flirt with Sanada, maybe that’ll take his mind off of my stupid brother.”

 

"Ew, gross! He's totally not my type, and I already have two boys I like, I don't want a third one!" An taps her foot, sighing heavily. "What if we _are_ wrong about this? What if they don't really like one another and we're making it worse?" 

 

Miyuki resists the urge to stamp her foot. She’s not a _kid_ anymore, she can’t act out like that. “Then they should at least make an effort to be friends again, because there’s no reason they shouldn’t! Ugh...I’m sorry we got paired up in the semifinals. If it had been just us two in the finals, we could have ditched the other two and it would have _worked_...maybe.”

 

An shakes her head. "It's not like we could keep that from happening. Ugh, let's just blame Kaede on this, she's the one that's being a total brat and making this _difficult_ \--"

 

The door swings open, and An immediately clamps a hand over her own mouth when Yukimura Kaede strides in, phone still in hand. She blinks, frowns, and stalks her way over to the mirror. "If you two are going to hide in here, at least make it less _obvious_ ," she huffs. 

 

 _Why does her hair have to be so good?_ An mournfully thinks, trying not to stare with open jealousy when Kaede tugs her ponytail down and shakes it out. "We're not hiding, we're _planning_." 

 

“You’re not helping those plans,” Miyuki informs Kaede, folding her arms over her chest and determinedly not noticing that somehow Kaede _already_ has boobs? How?? “An’s brother isn’t going to date you, leave him alone.”

 

Kaede sniffs, and glances at her phone when it beeps only to ignore it in favor of tying half of her hair up into a ponytail again. "If I wanted to date him, I could in a heartbeat. I'm not even trying very hard."

 

"That is _so_ not the point," An grouses, narrowing her eyes as she watches Kaede in the mirror. Are her boobs _seriously_ bigger than her own? That's like, as unfair as it possibly could be, because Kaede is _younger_ than she is! Is she taller, too? She's probably taller. _Grooosss._ "Listen, we have plans. You need to stay away from both of our brothers, that's the rule."

 

"Then why don't you tell _your_ brother to stay away from Gen-chan?" Kaede suddenly snaps, whirling around and jabbing a finger in Miyuki's direction. "He's going to ruin everything!" 

 

“I’m trying!” Miyuki hisses. “I keep kicking him! But he kicks himself with those stupid heavy geta all the time, I don’t think he even feels it! Ugh, I thought girls like you only wanted to date rich boys.” Probably unfair-- _definitely_ unfair given her own family background--but Miyuki isn’t terribly rational when she’s angry, and Kaede is ruining _everything_.

 

Kaede blinks, then flushes hot, snatching her phone up from where she set it on the counter and whirling away again. "What is that even supposed to mean?! You're like, what 8 and a half, what do you know?"

 

An scowls, immediately and defensively stepping forward. "Um, she's definitely 10, shut up! Not everyone's going to have huge boobs like you when they're _12_ , gross." 

 

"At least I have them."

 

"Yeah, well, at least mine don't get in the way of me playing tennis!"

 

"I am _so_ much better than you--" 

 

"Miyuki could beat you any day of the week!" 

 

Kaede opens her mouth to respond, but her phone beeps again, and she huddles up over it instead, definitely _not_ sniffling. "You're both being really mean, just leave me alone! I'm not gonna date your _stupid_ brother, it's not like he's that cute, anyway!" 

 

“Lion-nii-chan is the _cutest_ , excuse you!” Miyuki insists, not sure why she’s arguing _for_ that, only sure that she has to defend the Tachibana family name if An’s not going to (and really, in this way, An shouldn’t). “Just because you’re pretty and pale and good at tennis doesn’t mean you should get to cheat, too!”

 

"I-- _what?_ " Kaede's head jerks up, her fingers stilling in the middle of texting. "I didn't cheat!"

 

An rolls her eyes. "Uh, yeah, you kinda did. It was a brother-sister tournament, remember? Pretty sure that doesn't mean you just get to pick the strongest guy and play with him." 

 

"I've known Gen-chan since I was a _baby_ , he's might as well be my brother!"

 

"Okay, but he's _not_ ," An snidely points out. "So you shouldn't have entered. Then Miyuki-chan and I could have been in the finals just like we planned, you ruined everything!"

 

An was pretty proud of having someone to blame until Kaede--who she's pretty sure only has rumors surrounding her about being insane and scary and really, really dangerous on a tennis court--bursts into tears and darts off to hide in a bathroom stall. "…Um…" An whispers, glancing frantically over to Miyuki. "I wasn't like, _that_ mean, was I?" 

 

Miyuki blinks, looking nervously between An and the bathroom stall door. “Um...I don’t think so?” Ugh, girls are so much _work_ , guys are so much easier to hang out with. Even An is a lot of work, and Miyuki adores An.

 

Slowly, she edges closer to the stall where Kaede is sobbing. “Um...Yukimura-san? I’m sorry I said you cheated. Are you okay?”

 

There's a weak, muffled thump against the door that's probably Kaede's purse being thrown at it. "Go _away_." 

 

An is pretty sure they don't have time for this, but she's also terribly worried that she's _really_ messed up here, and…well…upsetting Yukimura Kaede really wasn't part of the plan at all?? Especially when that can only come back to haunt her, and An does _not_ want to be the girl that Kaede singles out on a tennis court, or sends her veritable harem of Rikkai after. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," An attempts, inching closer. "We just really wanted this to go well, and--"

 

The door swings open and Kaede emerges, glaring and tear-streaked. "Don't you think I _wanted_ to play with my brother? But he's _stupid_ and over in _England_ and w-won't even come home to see Gen-chan, let alone _me_ \--" 

 

An thinks that there should be a rule against still being pretty when there's crying involved. _How does she do that?_ she thinks with no small amount of jealousy, but now's not the time for that. 

 

Miyuki hops up onto the counter, awkwardly swinging her legs. This is definitely not how this night was supposed to go. It was supposed to have a _good_ end, with her brother and An’s brother realizing how stupid they are and how much better everything is when they’re together. An had gotten really excited about the idea of their brothers kissing or something, which is kind of weird to be that excited about, but Miyuki would be lying if she said it seemed _un_ likely. 

 

But now, Yukimura Kaede is crying, and that’s...weird. “Your brother is dumb, then,” she offers. “Our brothers are really dumb, too. I think all tennis playing brothers are dumb.” More like all boys are dumb, period, but that’s beside the point. “Are you guys, like, really close?”

 

Kaede shakily shrugs, shoves her hand into her bag for a tissue that she promptly blows her nose in. "No," she admits huffily, "but that's not the point. I don't think it's _unreasonable_ to want to do things with him now that he's actually not sick anymore!" 

 

Ahhhh. That's where it is, then. An sighs, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "Well, probably not, but he's probably just really busy in England--"

 

"And _mostly_ , I just wanted to try and get him to come home so he and Gen-chan could spend time together!" Kaede stamps her foot, huffing, and scrubs at her eyes. _No makeup_ , An notices with horror. _How?! How are her eyelashes that long normally?_ "Nii-chan's being so stupid! You guys think you're the only ones trying to get things back to normal, but you're not!"

 

With that, Miyuki understands, and she hops off the counter, extending her hand in as friendly a gesture as she can manage. “Okay. If you need any help, we’ll help you.” She looks at An, and nods firmly. “And you can help us with our brothers, okay?”

 

Kaede sniffles, but hesitantly nods, and slowly reaches out to take Miyuki's hand. "O-okay. I don't know what you want me to do, though."

 

An frowns, thinking. "The _main_ problem right now," she settles upon, "is that Senri-nii-chan is in a mood and just keeps--"

 

"--flirting with Gen-chan?" Kaede deadpans, only to sigh when her phone beeps again. Frustrated, she shoves it into her bag. "Sorry. My boyfriend literally just broke up with me, and keeps trying to be nice still, and I really want to kill him." 

 

An tries not to think about how boys can apparently break up with girls like Yukimura Kaede. What does that mean for her?! "R-right. He keeps flirting with Sanada and that's just not working. Maybe if you kept Sanada focused on something else…ugh, or do you think that would just make Senri-nii-chan try harder, Miyuki?"

 

Miyuki chews her lip, trying to think when most of her thoughts are focused around just _how_ Kaede can be so good at tennis and still have hands that are so soft. “Umm...hmm. It depends. If he really thinks that we’re doing some kind of horrible scheme, he’ll do whatever it takes to piss us off. That’s...just him, sorry, he’s absolutely awful.”

 

A thought occurs to her, and she asks hesitantly, “Kaede-kun, is there anything Sanada likes to talk about? Like, _really_ talk about? Anything that he just won’t shut up about? Hopefully something boring so that my stupid brother starts doing his dumb telepathy thing again?”

 

"Anything really old," Kaede says without hesitation. "And my brother. Mostly, my brother."

 

An looks sideways to Miyuki. "That might work. Maybe Senri-nii-chan will get frustrated enough that he loses interest? Maybe. He does prefer it when everyone's talking about him, after all, so if Sanada doesn't and Nii-chan stops being a brat and starts being sweet to him instead…"

 

“There’s _nothing_ my brother loves more than someone paying attention to him,” Miyuki says flatly. “That’s _perfect_. Okay, we have to be clever about this. After...hmm, five minutes? Kaede, I’ll ask you why you played with Sanada instead of with your real brother. Do you think you can get Sanada on that subject from there? An-nee-chan, you ask more about him from Sanada-san, okay?”

 

"Right, we can do this," An determinedly says, cracking her knuckles. "It's also been proven that if Senri-nii-chan starts pouting enough, Nii-chan _will_ start being cute with him! We can make this happen." 

 

"…You're gonna have to tell me all the juicy details about this later, because this sounds like a bad romance novel," Kaede says, her eyebrows arching high. 

 

“The eyepatch didn’t tip you off?” Miyuki says, and nods. “Okay, girls. We can do this. Kaede, do we have a backup plan in case Sanada doesn’t want to talk about your brother? Is there anything else he’s weird about? Old stuff won’t work, my brother loves dumb old stuff.”

 

"Literally, if there is a day that he won't talk about Nii-chan, it's the day after he committed seppuku," Kaede dryly says. "Oh--maybe Tezuka Kunimitsu, Seigaku's old captain--"

 

An firmly shakes her head. "Not gonna work. That's way too much common ground."

 

"Uh…huh." Kaede is starting to realize exactly how complicated this is.

 

“We’ll just have to hope that you’ll be able to get him on that tangent. Let’s do our best!” Miyuki cracks her knuckles, and leads them in a fall out, returning to the table with purpose. Before they get there, she leans up to whisper to Kaede, “I totally can’t tell that you were crying, your eyes look totally normal.”

 

Kaede blinks, then sags a little in relief, offering Miyuki a tiny smile. "That's good. Thanks." 

 

She takes a deep breath before trotting ahead of the other two girls, dropping herself down, and immediately fishes out her phone again. "They _could_ feed us already, I'm hungry!"

 

Chitose was beginning to appreciate the lack of interference, but, ah well. All good things must end. It doesn't stop him from having his chin in one hand as he continues to periodically gaze over at Sanada. "And here I thought you three died," he sighs. "How wonderful that you've emerged again." 

 

“Girl stuff. You should have come, Nii-chan,” Miyuki says, smiling sweetly.

 

Tachibana shoots An a sideways look. “You all right? Your hairclip fell out.”

 

At that moment, the food arrives, and Miyuki momentarily forgets all plans in the glee of a proper Mala bowl, diving in with relish and several enormous helpings of water.

 

"Better me than you, hm? Don't splatter that everywhere, Miyuki," Chitose lightly chides.

 

"Eh? It did? Shoot," An sighs, scowling briefly at Miyuki for _obviously_ forgetting to start timing things, because _she's_ supposed to be the instigator! 

 

"Ah, here, I've got an extra one," Kaede mumbles, passing a hair clip across the table. 

 

 _Is this the truest form of a tsundere? How do I achieve this?_ "T-thanks. Miyuki-chan, don't get your really spicy stuff over here, I don't want to die!" 

 

“You won’t die! It’s good, try it!” Lost in the bliss of spice, Miyuki almost forgets--but no, things are better this way, now there’s an actual reason to start. “Mm, Kaede-chan, I bet your brother would love to have some real Japanese food right now, right? Didn’t you say he was away somewhere?”

 

“England,” Sanada grunts, and signals the waiter down for a second bowl. Miyuki blinks, but true enough the first one is already empty. “The food there is terrible. He says it’s all bland and kind of brown. At least they have a lot of fish there as well, or he’d probably start importing his own.”

 

"Nii-chan probably wouldn't like this all that much," Kaede lightly says, downing half a glass of water. "But he'd still like it more than England. Gen-chan, you should stop being stingy and make sure to send him more care packages!"

 

“I’m not being _stingy_ ,” Sanada growls, though he’s certainly going to make sure he and Kaede aren’t fronting the bill for this evening. “He needs to eat more fresh foods and less things that can be packaged up.” He pauses, guilt gnawing at him a little, and offers, “I did send him another roll of calligraphy last week. Besides, I’m spending all of my allowance on phone cards, international calling isn’t cheap!”

 

Miyuki blinks. That’s definitely the most she’s ever heard Sanada talk at one time.

 

 _This might actually work!_ An thinks with some excitement, but makes sure to keep her expression calmly interested all the same. "I'm really sad that Fudoumine never got to play Rikkai," she sighs. "I heard so many amazing things about Yukimura-buchou. All of my friends on the girls team kept talking about him, he was so _good._ " 

 

“He’s better than _good_.” Sanada’s voice is cool, firm, and resonant as he tucks into his second bowl. “Rikkai would have been the winners, and Fudomine would have been the losers, unconditionally. There is no player that Yukimura could not defeat.”

 

Tachibana almost opens his mouth to say, _Except Echizen Ryouma_ , but squashes that. There’s no reason to make this unfriendly. “You have that much faith in him?” he asks instead.

 

Sanada’s jaw clenches. “There are no words to describe his power, his grace, his domination on the court. Any man would be lucky to experience the utter destruction that is playing against him.”

 

An spares a look over at Kaede, who just shrugs with a look on her face that says _I told you so._ Well. That would be great and all, except one glance over to Chitose makes it seem _very unlikely_ that this is becoming a deterrent. 

 

"The way you talk about him is so passionate." 

 

_No no no no no no! Darn it, Miyuki, your brother is the worst!_

 

Chitose looks every bit like he's eating this up, actually, and An finds that horrific. "It must be nice for him to have someone like you as support in his life, Sanada-kun."

 

Sanada gives Chitose a level look that lasts longer than he’d planned--as if he isn’t entirely sure whether Chitose is making fun of him or not. Finally, slowly, he nods. “I am whatever support I can be. Someone like him...I’m lucky if I can be even the slightest use. Now that he’s gone pro, of course, it’s only a matter of short time until everyone is more than aware of what I’ve known forever: that he’s the best in the world.”

 

There’s a brief silence after that, until Tachibana shrugs, and quietly takes a drink of water. “Except Echizen Ryouma,” he says with one raised eyebrow, and it seems like the words cause the temperature at the table to drop twenty degrees.

 

Chitose's gaze slides over to Tachibana--to which An inwardly cheers--until he opens his mouth with that little smile of his flashing beforehand. "You know, Kippei," he slowly drawls, "your own team's inability to deal with Echizen entirely shouldn't taint your opinions so much. Sanada-kun has actually defeated him once before, so I think he's more capable of having a conversation about him, no matter the events of Nationals." 

 

Sanada lets out a bark of laughter that startles most everyone at the table, and pours another round of water for everyone from the pitcher on the table. “Chitose. I’d heard rumors about you for years. They say you’re the wisest man on any tennis court. I was hoping to play you for myself at last.”

 

“ _Off_ a tennis court is another matter,” Tachibana says under his breath, and Sanada pointedly ignores him. 

 

“There aren’t many middle schoolers who can access the depths of Muga no Kyouchi, let alone step through one of the doors the way you did.” A third bowl of Mala comes from behind, and Sanada tucks into it with gusto, somehow managing to stay tidy. “That takes an impressive soul.”

 

Chitose blinks slowly, and that smile is back-- _abort, abort, abort!!!_ An thinks frantically--when he idly reaches across the table with his chopsticks, steals a piece of meat from Sanada's bowl without even asking, and adds it to his own. "You're terribly flattering. Ahh, what a shame we never did meet when I was playing. I consider myself retired now, but…mm, for you, Sanada-kun, I might make an exception." His head tilts contemplatively. "I've always wondered how close you were to Muga no Kyouchi. After speaking to you like this, my guess is 'very.'" 

 

"My brother is closer," Kaede hisses underneath her breath.

 

Chitose ignores her. "If you start sending _me_ calligraphy in the mail," he says, his eyes lidding, "maybe I'll know more precisely. A brush stroke can say quite a bit, and I'm rather good at reading that sort of thing." 

 

An bites back a groan and briefly buries her face in one hand. That's it. They've failed. _Miyuki, your brother is the worst._  

 

“It takes a wise man to know Muga,” Sanada allows, coloring slightly under the collar, “but a wiser one to appreciate calligraphy. Don’t leave without giving me your address. I can think of many things I’d like to say to you that way.”

 

 _Weird! Intense! No good!_ “Good luck finding him at home,” Miyuki pipes up, trying to smile while also trying to telepathically murder her brother. “He’s usually out wandering in a very unreliable way. Seriously, he’ll just pick a train and _go_.”

 

Sanada’s grim expressions softens. “Yukimura used to talk about doing that,” he says, letting his chopsticks rest for a moment. “Usually when he was sick.”

 

On the other side of the table, Tachibana wonders if now is an optimum time to hang himself with his own shoelaces, or if he should wait a few minutes and see how this trainwreck develops.

 

"I wonder when I developed that habit," Chitose says, only half to himself, and An joins the party of trying to murder him with her eyes. "Ahh…at any rate, it's not so bad being unreliable once in awhile, especially if there's someone to depend on back home. It sounds like Yukimura-kun had that," he adds with a smile, "all wrapped up into one lovely package. I hope he was properly grateful to you, Sanada-kun. You can talk about it being your responsibility all that you want, but it still takes a strong man to handle all that you did." 

 

Sanada’s chest puffs up slightly, and maybe he flexes his biceps a little, which Miyuki is pretty sure is Gross. “Anyone would go to the ends of the earth for the thing he truly loves. Not everyone is called upon to prove it. My share of things could have been much worse. I had my health, a team, and a goal.” He signals the waiter for yet another bowl, and Miyuki tries not to gag. “As much as that was the most difficult time in my life, I miss having a goal, something to force me to give my all.”

 

"Sometimes, we have to push ourselves on a personal level…or abandon other things, if they simply aren't making us happy any more." It's actually almost too easy, this whole game of petting Sanada's ego, and while Chitose supposes he could hate that more, it could also be more interesting. Ah, well. At least Tachibana looks annoyed. That's a start. "Perhaps trying to attain Muga would help with that, to an extent." 

 

“Muga...to me,” Sanada clarifies, “has always seemed like one of those things that gets further away the more you head directly towards it. In kendo, you don’t focus on your target, but on your own movements, your own blade. Not like _archery_ , pshh.” Archery. What a trashy sport.

 

"Do you really want me to get started on a conversation about Muga?" _Go on, then, say yes and we can be here for hours_ \--

 

"Senri-nii-chan, you're being _really_ awful," An interrupts, pulling out this card as her last, desperate attempt. "You know how long it's been since you've seen Nii-chan, you should really want to talk to him more!" 

 

Chitose sighs, and shoots Tachibana a brief, bored glance. "If he had something to say to me, he would have already. At any rate, Sanada-kun, all of your kendo training shows through so well with your tennis. It's an art to watch."

 

An looks desperately over at Miyuki. _I tried! We all did, what now?!_

 

“An. We’re going.” 

 

Tachibana stands, pulls a few 1000 yen bills from his pocket, and sets them down neatly on the table. He extends a hand to Sanada, who shakes it firmly. “Nice game. I enjoyed playing a man of your strength.”

 

Sanada gives him a nod, but doesn’t rise. “Take care on the way home.”

 

Miyuki kicks her brother as hard as she can under the table. “Tell him to stay!” she hisses. “Nii-chan, _please_!”

 

Chitose rubs at his leg irritably, and _tries_ not to scowl at his sister. Easier said than done, when he's annoyed that the only reaction he gets is Tachibana _leaving,_ and not acting out in some kind of a righteous fury. _I deserve more than that,_ he darkly thinks. "Obviously, Kippei has somewhere to be. That's none of my business." His eyes flash when he leans back to look at Tachibana a last time. "Do you have a new girlfriend, Kippei?"

 

"Nii-chan, you're being a jerk, too, I want to stay!" An huffs, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "I never get to see Miyuki-chan!"

 

“Sorry, no girlfriend,” Tachibana says, as level as he can make it. “So there’s no one for you to steal and sleep with tonight. Besides, you’re right.” He hefts his tennis bag onto his shoulder. “I’ve said everything I needed to stay. An, you can stay and talk to Miyuki if you want. Do you have train fare?”

 

Miyuki looks frantically between her brother and Tachibana. “But...but it’s taken so _long_ to all get back together again,” she says, crestfallen.

 

Sanada’s eyes flick around the table, and he nods to Kaede. “Perhaps we’re the imposition here. If you have unfinished business, I don’t mind leaving you to it.”

 

Kaede hesitates, and it's An that scarcely stops herself from stomping her foot. "Nii-chan, if you actually were being _personable_ , none of this would have happened!"

 

"Ah, no, I've probably been dreadfully rude," Chitose sighs, stretching carefully as he grabs the check left on the table. "Kippei usually feels that way about me, so why would he ever want to put up with me for longer than hour-long snippets? Oh, Sanada-kun, give me your hand for a second." 

 

He doesn't exactly wait for it to be extended as much as he reaches across the table, pulls it over, and carefully writes out his address into Sanada's palm with a pen left by the waitress. "Come on, Miyuki," he lightly says, "we're going to head out."

 

Miyuki is probably more frustrated by this than by losing in the semifinals. She turns away to give An a long hug--a long way away from the six-year-old who didn’t want to hear about 9-year-old An’s ideas about makeup and boys and hair--and whispers, “We’ll try again. They can’t be stupid forever.”

 

Tachibana wavers. His body wants to move, to reach out and grab Chitose’s hand like the old days, to squeeze and trust and grin like nothing could possibly tear them apart, but those were the old days. Chitose had put more distance than just Kyushu to Osaka between them when he’d left, and no amount of easy locker room conversation is going to fix that, apparently. “I...I hope this isn’t the last time you play in a tournament up here,” he says, and hates the vague formality of the words. They don’t do their relationship justice, and they don’t do his feelings justice, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He aches, he’s sore, he’s exhausted, and he’s suffered more than one kind of crushing blow today.

 

 _Too little, too late,_ Chitose bitterly thinks, even though his expression doesn't waver. Maybe, if Tachibana had been cute half an hour ago, this would have been different. Maybe if he had smiled and had sat next to him and had tried to touch his hair or had tried _anything at all_ , he wouldn't be so angry about what feels like everything and nothing at once. 

 

"Tokyo isn't for me," he hears himself say instead of everything that he'd _like_ to just rant about forever. "So who knows." 

 

An huffs, and squeezes Miyuki back tightly. "I sure hope not," she whispers, glaring over at both of their brothers. "They're _so_ stupid." 

 

"Um…thank you for playing me today, Tachibana-san," Kaede gingerly puts in, and it takes An a moment to realize that it's her that's being addressed, not her brother. "I hope maybe the three of us can play again in the future." 

 

“And I hope your brother stops being really dumb,” Miyuki says frankly, and squeezes Kaede’s hand. _I hope all our brothers stop being really dumb,_ she thinks, but it’s a forlorn hope.

 

Then, a stroke of genius comes to her in a flash of lightning. “Go, now,” she whispers to Kaede. “Take him with you.”

 

Kaede’s interference turns out to be unnecessary, as Sanada is quick to move after he rises, waving aside any money from Chitose and passing Tachibana’s cash back. “The winner who takes all, pays all,” he says gravely. “I hope to meet you both on a court again. You especially, Chitose.”

 

With that, he stalks out of the restaurant. Before Tachibana can follow, Miyuki pipes up, “Lion-nii-san, please come to Osaka next weekend! Nii-chan is having a fundraiser with Shitenhouji!”

 

 _Damn it, Miyuki._ "Um--I think you mean that the tennis club has a fundraiser," Chitose _sweetly_ corrects her, attempting to make a break for the door while he still can. "Which I am barely participating in, and only because Kura asked me _so_ nicely."

 

Tachibana hesitates, then nods. “I’m not doing anything that weekend. Sounds like it’ll be a good break.” Maybe next week, he’ll be able to fix the mistakes of this week. It’s a long shot, but it’s all he has right now. “I’ll see you then.” And because that’s more friendly, he lets himself clap Chitose on the shoulder, squeezing as he walks past. “Come on, An.”

 

Miyuki wants to kiss herself. _Take that, stubborn boys._

 

 _Nice one, Miyuki!_ An flashes her a thumbs up before darting after her brother, almost skipping. 

 

Unfortunately, Chitose's knees wobble, and he is going to kill his sister.

 

"Miyuki," he _calmly_ says after extricating himself from the restaurant and seriously contemplating leaving her behind, at the very least, "please don't do something like that again." 

 

“Eh?” Miyuki beams up at her brother. “But I heard you tell Shiraishi that he didn’t have to worry because it was just all in good fun, right? So there’s nothing to worry about.”

 

"That's literally the exact opposite of what I'm talking about and you know it." 

 

It's his turn to moodily pull out his phone, and sends off a quick text out of sheer frustration.

 

**To: Kura**

**From: Chitose Senri**

**Subject: ugh**

**how much does shitenhouji need me at that fundraiser, honestly?**

 

If it were anyone but Shiraishi Kuranosuke that had asked him, simply _not showing up_ would have been easy.

 

The phone beeps again immediately.

 

**To: Chitose Senri**

**From: Shiraishi**

**Subject: :(**

**Are you feeling unwell? I can come over with food. I’m sure we’d be all right without you if you really can’t come. Don’t worry, I’ll manage somehow if you’re ill. I can be there in 15 minutes with soup, 4 minutes without!**

 

**To: Kura**

**From: Chitose Senri**

**Subject: it's not like that**

**i'm in tokyo right now, don't worry about it. i just had a bad day and my sister invited kippei to come so i'm not pleased with her.**

 

How bad can it possibly be, really, considering how bad this all already is? Chitose irritably bites the inside of one cheek, and tucks his phone away long enough to lead them through the train station. 

 

**To: Chitose Senri**

**From: Shiraishi**

**Subject: PHEW**

**When are you coming home? I can still bring food www. If you want we can make sure you don’t have to deal with him? You can assign him to someone else, I REALLY want you there!**

 

“Nii-chan,” Miyuki mutters, keeping up with his long legs by virtue of jogging, “I was just trying to help. You were being awful.”

 

" _He's_ the one that's the idiot," Chitose snaps automatically, his sense of humor regrettably now lacking. Tachibana's eye _better_ be fine. The fact that he thinks it's perfectly okay to use that as a way to atone for what happened is--

 

…is…really obnoxious and touching all at once and it makes his throat tight. "Whatever," he mutters, going through the turnstile for the Shinkansen and waiting for Miyuki to follow before he pulls out his phone again. "I don't care about him, Miyuki, so just drop it." 

 

**To: Kura**

**From: Chitose Senri**

**Subject: getting on the train soon**

**he'll find a way to talk to me, so it's moot point. i'll be there. sorry for worrying you, it's just been a really stupid day.**

 

“But you were _so_ weird with Sanada! Seriously gross, I didn’t want to see that.” Miyuki stops walking, visibly upset. “And now you’re really mad and I just wanted you to see him again because I know you miss him.”

 

**To: Chitose Senri**

**From: Shiraishi**

**Subject: (^** **・** **ω** **・** **^ )**

**Want me to meet you at the train?**

 

**To: Kura**

**From: Chitose Senri**

**Subject: <3**

**that would be nice. i'll text you half an hour out.**

 

Chitose stops, exhaling a long, weary sigh, and shoves his phone away for good. "Miyuki," he carefully attempts, "it's way more than that. One tennis match isn't going to fix much of anything." 

 

“Which is why I invited him next weekend,” she says with a huff, folding her arms and not meeting her brother’s eyes. “Maybe if you get to talk without other people around, you’ll be able to actually....I dunno, talk. Like you used to.”

 

"And you really think I'm gonna be able to talk to him normally when I'm in maid outfit and high heels." 

 

“If anyone could, it would be you!” Miyuki squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to let herself start crying. “It’s still _you_ , nii-chan. You swore to me you didn’t hate him!”

 

 _Damn it._ Chitose breathes in, breathes out, and reaches out for his sister, pulling her over with a gentle tug. "Hey, you know it's not your fault if things don't work out, right?" he gently presses, tugging on the bill of her hat lightly. "I don't hate him, but that doesn't mean that he's gonna make me stop being less upset any time soon." 

 

Miyuki buries her face in her brother’s belly, about as high as she can reach without some kind of stilt. “You’re just so _dumb_ ,” she mutters, resisting the urge to thunk her fists against him and wrapping her arms around him instead. “An-nee-chan says he talks about you all the time, but you never mention him.”

 

"Yeah, well," Chitose sighs out, and scoops his sister up into his arms in one easy motion, making it easier for her to strangle him if she so desires. He'd do it, if he were her. "Just because I don't talk about him doesn't mean I'm not thinking about him, for better or for worse."

 

“W-why do you hate him so much?” she demands, voice quivering. It’s so _incomprehensible_ \--Kippei had been more than a feature at their home, he’d been family. He’d given her birthday presents, and walked her to school, and taught her how to swim out of currents. He’d been responsible for most of the real, not-fake smiles she’s ever seen on her brother’s face, and then, he was gone. “You guys are so _mean_ to each other now, I hate it! It was just a stupid accident, why can’t you let it go?” She might be yelling now, and is definitely crying, which is even _worse_.

 

This just couldn't wait for a private car on the train, could it? _Well, Tokyo, enjoy the root of my problems being tossed back into my face--loudly._

 

Actually responding is something different, however, and that's why it takes a moment before he even thinks of opening his mouth. "I don't hate him," he finally settles upon. "And I know it was an accident. Being upset doesn't always have to make a lot of sense, Miyuki."

 

Except it does, because there's literally _nothing_ that can make this right. It's because he's either left behind, or Tachibana is giving something up, and neither of those are acceptable. Not being able to find a single workaround with a problem is the worst, and Chitose's arms tighten around his sister. "I know you're trying to help, but it's a lot more complicated than you're thinking." 

 

Miyuki has given up all pretense on anger now, and simply weeps into her brother’s shirt, clinging to his neck. “Y-you’re so smart, though! Why can’t you just...I don’t know! You guys love each other! It should work!”

 

"If you keep this up, you're gonna make _me_ cry, and that's gonna get really gross," Chitose murmurs, sighing out a shaky breath as he hoists her up more firmly onto his hip. "Being smart isn't like…the most helpful thing in this kind of situation. Mostly, I just think about a lot of dumb things. I'm really sorry, Miyuki." 

 

“It would be better if you cried than acting all...sharp and mad all the time,” Miyuki mumbles. “We’re gonna miss the train. I can walk.” She _can_ , but that doesn’t mean she wants to, and her arms are firmly latched around her brother’s neck. “We should probably talk about how stupid he looks with short hair.”

 

"You don't have to walk." Chitose adjusts their bags on his shoulder and turns to reorient himself before setting off with Miyuki still securely in his hold. Sitting on a train with his sister for a few hours sounds like the biggest relief ever compared to all of this trip. "He looks even worse with short hair and an eyepatch. Now he'll never get a girlfriend."

 

Miyuki takes every opportunity to snuggle into Chitose’s chest, despite the fact that she’s _definitely ten_ and should be more mature than this by now. Whatever, her brother always smells good and she’s had a rough day. “He plays great tennis,” she says miserably. “An says there’s always girls sending him envelopes.”

 

That shouldn't make him as annoyed as it does. This is the opposite of what should have happened. The evening spent flirting with Sanada was supposed to make Tachibana jealous, not remind Chitose of what he personally can't seem to ever have. "He does play great tennis," he softly agrees, taking the stairs two at a time to reach their platform, and making it to their car a solid two minutes before it's about to leave. "That doesn't mean he should have a girlfriend."

 

 _I am five years old,_ Chitose cheerfully thinks to himself, and flops down into his seat, not quite letting his sister go yet. "His short hair is no good, though. Let's focus on the horrible things about him."

 

“It’s really stupid,” Miyuki agrees. They’re both too tall and too old to make this really work all that well, but she doesn’t really care at the moment, and resigns herself to hanging around his neck for the foreseeable future. “An showed me one of his selfies from earlier this year, and his hair was _black_. It looked so bad! Also, did you hear how he got to be team captain?” She’s been sitting firmly on all of this information for a year, waiting until her brother wouldn’t fly into a fit at the mention of his old best friend’s name.

 

"Yeah, I saw it, and I heard about that, too." It really irritates him on at least a dozen levels, but actually putting those levels into words is something beyond him. "And now he's in high school, and none of it matters. What an idiot." 

 

Miyuki glares at him a little, and thumps his shoulder. “Where did you hear about it? I thought you cut off all contact, that’s why I never said anything.”

 

"I'm a gross stalker," Chitose blithely replies, his eyes lidding as he leans his head back against the seat to smile at her. "It's not like I've talked to him. Today was the first time I've done that since I moved to Osaka."

 

“Nii-chan, you’re so creepy.” The words don’t have any real rancor behind them, and Miyuki deliberately wipes her eyes and nose on his shirt sleeve. “An thinks something else happened between you two. Besides the eye thing. She thinks...” Miyuki looks away, embarrassed for him.

 

Chitose absently tugs on her ponytail as a manner of revenge. "Mm? What? Don't worry, I won't be mean to her if she's wrong." 

 

“She says you have a...I dunno, she thinks you tried to kiss him or something and he didn’t let you.” Miyuki buries her face again, not wanting to see the offended look on his face, not wanting to say that An had _actually_ theorized that one of the boys had tried to do something a lot worse than that. She hadn’t even wanted to hear that theory, and hadn’t spoken to An for quite a while after that. “Or he did, and that’s why you won’t talk to him.”

 

"Heehh, she thinks I'm really that brave? An-chan scores some points." Chitose's expression shifts wry, and he glances out of the window as the train starts to pull out of the station. "None of that happened. I wish it had. It would have made things easier in alot of ways."

 

That’s something of a relief, and somewhat troubling, too. Miyuki frowns, and makes absolutely no effort to move. “Was Nana right?” she asks quietly, not sure if she wants to hear the answer. “About us being switched souls and bodies?”

 

Chitose thinks about that for a moment, then shrugs, one hand slowly rubbing his sister's back. "I think she's right about a lot of things," he admits softly, "but I don't know about this one. I don't think it would have mattered if Kippei were a man or a woman. What about you, hm? You can tell me you're 10 all you want, but you know who you like, and it doesn't seem to matter too much."

 

Miyuki shrugs awkwardly, and turns to rest her cheek on her brother’s chest. At least that’s one question completely answered, even if she’s not sure she’ll tell An about it later. “Dunno. I think a lot that maybe it would be easier if Nana was right. You know, to be a tennis player and stuff, and I don’t like a lot of the stuff that girls like. But I’m not like...scared of getting boobs or anything.”

 

"Mmm…maybe in that way, Nana's right. I like a lot of the things girls like," Chitose says with a a laugh. " _And_ I'm better at sitting in the girl's way of seiza, too. You know, though, girls still get a lot of attention in tennis, and you're so good that it's a given that sponsors are going to want you." 

 

“Yeah, but they’re gonna want me to do it in a little skirt with a low-cut shirt, and you _know_ I’m gonna have boobs like mom.” Miyuki checks every morning in the mirror. Still no boobs, but she _knows_ they’re coming. “And...I dunno, I think boys are really stupid. Does that make me a boy inside, like Nana said?”

 

"You don't _have_ to wear what they tell you. You can laugh in their faces and then go and win everything. If they hassle you even then, I'll just wear the skirt for you," Chitose teases, and gives her ponytail another light tug. "Boys are stupid. I wish more people thought that, honestly, but if _you_ were a boy, no matter how, I'd still think you were cool."

 

“You’re gonna look _really_ pretty this weekend,” Miyuki says confidently, seizing on a topic that doesn’t involve quite so much introspection. “What are you gonna do with your hair? I can probably do braids, just not as well as Kippei.”

 

Chitose looks resolutely out of the window again. "You say that as if I've completely made up my mind about doing it." He's going to do it. He _has to_. Shiraishi is going to be in a maid outfit and that's going to attract half a dozen creeps at _least_. He has to be on full alert. "…I've been teaching Kura how to cornrow," he begrudgingly admits. "He finds it soothing. I'm sure he can do it if you'd rather go practice." And she would, obviously.

 

“I do have a lot to work on. I’ll probably be practicing my overhand for about a month,” she admits sheepishly. Even now, the memory of Yukimura Kaede’s slow, graceful execution of that overhand plays in her head. “Are you gonna wear makeup? How about socks?”

 

"Did you get Kaede-chan's phone number to ask her for advice?" Chitose lightly teases, giving her side a pinch. "I don't need makeup, I'm flawless, and if you think those over-the-knee socks aren't a _requirement_ for being a part of the maid cafe…"

 

“The maid cafe seems weird,” Miyuki says frankly. “Like, I’m not getting the point wrong, am I? You flirt with guys while wearing a dress and they give you money, right? Isn’t that kind of like...I dunno...”

 

"Oh, it's definitely as homoerotic as you'd think. It was Koharu's idea last year, and it made more money than any other fundraiser Shitenhouji's tennis team has ever done, so…it's a staple now, I think." Chitose pauses, and his eyebrows slowly raise. "Does Kippei _know_ it's a maid cafe, you think?"

 

Miyuki opens her mouth, then remembers, and closes it, frowning. “Uh. I _might_ have just said that it was a fundraiser, and then he left. Um...oops?”

 

"…Well, he's in for a treat," Chitose says on an exhale, settling back with a shake of his head. "This is going to be awful and I'm going to keep blaming you for that, just so you know." 

 

“Sorry.” Miyuki doesn’t sound terribly sorry. “If you talked to him like a grown-up instead of flirting all weird with Sanada all night, this wouldn’t have happened. You were _pissy_.”

 

"He could have flirted with _me_ instead. Or gotten defensive and angry and, I don't know, made an effort to make me _stop_ flirting with Sanada."

 

“Nii-chan...” Miyuki shifts, not sure how to bring up the next point, knowing she has to. “Do you think he likes you like that? I mean, I don’t think he’s like...full-homo. An says he’s had girlfriends.”

 

That's the root of it all, isn't it? Chitose shrugs and settles for hugging his sister like she's a large plush toy for a moment. "I don't know," he finally says, doing a very good job, he thinks, of not sounding that upset about it. "I think I've been pretty obvious. He's either not interested, or he's the biggest idiot I've ever met." He might be the latter either way.

 

This is starting to make a little bit more sense, and because of that, Miyuki allows herself to be squished to an impressive degree, even patting his back and squeezing in return. “Is that why you’re really not talking to him?” she asks, as gently as she can. “Because you _like_ -like him and he doesn’t _like_ -like you back?”

 

"Phrasing it like that makes it sound so simple," Chitose darkly mutters, slouching down a bit more. "That's just one part of it."

 

“Sorry. I was just trying to understand.” Miyuki considers for a moment, then offers, “If he can see you in a cute maid outfit and he still doesn’t want to kiss you, then he’s stupid and you should date Shiraishi instead.”

 

That actually throws him for such a loop that Chitose can do little but blink at her for a moment. "I…ah…but…I mean, that's not _terrible_ advice," he weakly says. "But Kura's very, very taken, and I'm not exactly…you know, Miyuki, you're not 10, you're a thousand year old demon." 

 

“Nana has _also_ said that,” Miyuki agrees, quite pleased with herself. “I thought you were just saying he was taken so that Kippei got jealous and thought you were the one, uh, taking him.”

 

"God, no. I mean, I'm glad that it came across that way, that's a very desired effect, but he's…even if he wasn't, he and I aren't like that." Chitose rakes a hand back through his hair, considering. "Not that I can't see why you would think we are," he admits. "Bleach blond captains do seem to be a trend. Whoops." 

 

“You’re dumb. You should date Tezuka. _He’s_ good.”

 

"He is good, you're right, but he also likes blond captains, which, alas, I am not. It's okay, though; he'd make an exception for you." 

 

“Maybe I’ll just dye my hair and become a captain, that seems to be what everyone is into.” Including Yukimura Kaede, which could be _less_ of a concern.

 

"…You would look cute with blonde hair, but consider this: you're already gorgeous and girls should be falling all over themselves to kiss you." 

 

Miyuki is about to respond that he’s _so gross ew!_ but the idea of a bunch of girls falling over themselves to kiss her...well. That could sound a lot worse. “I dunno. I’ll think about it. They have to wait for a while anyway. _You_ should be kissing people, Nii-chan. You’re old.”

 

"I am old," Chitose agrees wearily. "I could be kissing a lot of people. I'm good at it, and I deserve kisses. Oh, well. This is the problem with being ridiculously picky." 

 

“You have a lot of problems, Nii-chan, and you create most of them.” That’s why he’s really angry at Tachibana, probably. It’s the one problem he _hadn’t_ created himself.

 

"You're not wrong. I'm fairly good at that, aren't I?" Chitose shifts to fish out his phone, and takes care to set an alarm to go off thirty minutes before their arrival. If he doesn't and he's late, Shiraishi will have a conniption fit. "At least I have you to keep me in line."

 


	13. The Shitenhouji Maid Cafe, Part One of ???; Atobe and Ryouma

"Not gonna."

 

There's a collective groan about the room that Echizen Ryouma couldn't care less about. There's a frilly, fluffy maid outfit being thrust in front of him still, and he prides himself on not flinching away. He just glares more. 

 

He had been informed this was a fundraiser. A fundraiser usually entails bake sales, or stupid, dumb theatre things, or even a takoyaki stand--this _is_ Osaka, after all. A maid cafe is really, really dumb, and he's at least a thousand percent sure that it's a really bad idea. 

 

Also, he's just _not gonna do it._

 

"C'mon, Echizen," Osamu wheedles, because for some reason, even their _coach_ is in on it. "You'll be really cuuuute--"

 

"Gross, Coach."

 

"Yeah, that is pretty gross, isn't it," Osamu mutters underneath his breath. "Anyway, just do it, it's part of being in the club!"

 

"Then why is Chitose-sempai doing it?" Ryouma deadpans. 

 

"Because he's a good sport and with us in spirit, now say you'll wear the dang thing," Osamu flatly retorts as Chitose flashes a bored peace sign in the background.

 

"Nope." Ryouma grabs for his tennis racquet, because he'd much rather practice underneath the hot, hot sun instead. He didn't sign up for maid outfits, no way.

 

Shiraishi snatches the racquet away, and looks down at Ryouma with an oddly intent look in his eyes, the kind he usually only has to use on Kintarou. “Echizen-kun, where’s your team spirit?”

 

"I don't have any."

 

“Nonsense! Think how full to the brim you’ll be with spirit once you put this on.”

 

"But I don't like having team spirit, so why would I put it on."

 

“Because we’re telling you to. Right, Kaidou-buchou?”

 

“Put the damn dress on, Echizen.”

 

"Not gonna do that."

 

“Echizen-kun, do you know how I keep Kin-chan in line?”

 

“He has a poison hand! Look out, Koshimae!”

 

"It's definitely fake," Ryouma deadpans, and turns towards the door again. "Come on, Kintarou, you don't have to do this either. Let's go practice."

 

Zaizen disinterestedly glances up from his phone. "He'll find you," he says. "Shiraishi will find you, Echizen, and you're going to hate it."

 

Kintarou bursts out of the impromptu dressing room, fully-clad in a maid outfit complete with leopard-print ruffled skirts. “This is for tennis, Koshimae! If we make a lot of money, Kaidou says we can go out to takoyaki and yakiniku after our games instead of the cheap crap Samu-chan used to buy!”

 

“Kin-chan, there were underwear in there for you as well.”

 

“Don’t want them!”

 

“Put them on, Kin-chan.”

 

Ryouma stares at Kintarou for a long, extended period before looking away again, and yanking his hat down. "I'll take you out to takoyaki whenever, we don't have to do this stupid cafe." 

 

"Your turn, Kurarin," Osamu cheerfully interrupts, pushing Shiraishi in the direction of the dressing room. Better to get this part out of the way now, _definitely_. "We'll keep working on this brat while you change. Oi, Chitose, block the door!"

 

Damn it, but Chitose's fast when he wants to be, and even if he wasn't, it only takes about two strides for him to be in Ryouma's way and making it impossible to leave. Ryouma scowls and glares. "Don't wanna do this."

 

"Sometimes, it's just better to agree," Chitose tells him with a smile, and Ryouma thinks about kicking him.

 

“This is how we fund our tennis club,” Shiraishi calls to him through the curtain as he strips and starts dressing. “All those fees for entering tournaments, transportation, and hotels? This is how we do them. No cafe, no tennis, and the whole team needs to pull together.”

 

He steps out, and gives a huge smile before he remembers. “Ah, stockings! Will someone tie my bow in the back while I put these on?” he asks, bending over to roll a stocking up one leg.

 

There’s a clattering sound, and Kintarou’s racquet hits the ground. “Whoa...Shiraishi, you’re suddenly so pretty!”

 

Something about that makes Ryouma annoyed. He turns, looking back at Shiraishi, and glowers. He's not that pretty. He looks just like he always does, but in a dress. That's dumb. Kintarou's dumb. What comes out of his mouth, though, is a very sulky: " _I'd_ be prettier."

 

"I've got you, Kura," Chitose hums, sidling away from the door when it's obvious Ryouma isn't about to run now. "Heh, I swear your waist has gotten even tinier since last year."

 

That in particular seems to spell the end for Osamu, which Chitose finds _highly_ entertaining. He definitely fumbles for a cigarette in his pocket as he hauls himself to his feet and moves towards the door. "I've--ah, yeah, manager stuff, gonna go set up the last parts--you've got things under control, Kurarin!" 

 

And then he's gone, nearly running into Kenya, who darts into the clubhouse at the last minute. "Sorry I'm late, Yuushi's an idiot that got lost _again_ and I--whoa, Shiraishi, looking good!" 

 

Shiraishi preens under the compliments, rolling up his stocking over the other leg. “Ecstasy! Ah, shall we make it a competition like last year? Whoever makes the most money in tips gets to choose the location of our next victory dinner.”

 

“I won’t lose!” Kintarou declares, though his eyes are still locked on the tops of those thigh highs as Shiraishi clips them into place with his garters. “We’re all going for takoyaki!”

 

"I already told you I'd take you out for takoyaki," Ryouma grouses, staring at Kintarou for a moment longer before shoving his tennis bag back into the corner and stalking over to grab his dress. "This is so stupid."

 

"Come here and sit down, Kura, I'll do your makeup while Echizen gets changed." Maybe now they can at least count on Kintarou behaving all day because he'll be salivating on Echizen Ryouma. 

 

"Is there a prize for the _fastest_ maid?" Kenya idly questions, and Zaizen nearly throws his iPod at him.

 

Shiraishi perches on the stool in front of Chitose, trying his level best not to blink. “I still don’t understand how the Captain got out of it. Kaidou, where’s your dress?”

 

“No one wants to see that,” Kaidou grunts. “And someone had to help the Coach.”

 

“I wanna see Kaidou-buchou in a dress! Holy crap, Kenya, you’re already changed?”

 

Zaizen opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it again, and firmly huddles up behind his iPod once more.

 

Kenya, however, preens. "I told you, I'm the fastest maid!"

 

Chitose glances briefly over his shoulder, and well, at least Kenya looks cute and rather shockingly like a girl when he's wrapped up in enough pink plaid (which highly resembles speed lines when he moves). "We still have your ponytail clip-on if you want it," he mildly offers up, gently catching Shiraishi's chin between his fingers and starting with his eyeliner. 

 

"Yeah, and I brought my heels from last year, it's all about the legs!"

 

"To your cousin, maybe," Chitose mutters underneath his breath.

 

"This is _really_ stupid," Ryouma mutters upon emerging from the makeshift dressing room, mostly trying to huddle up behind his own bunched up pile of practice clothes still and _clearly_ feeling as awkward as can be. "I'm not gonna wear the hair extensions, that's _dumb._ " 

 

"Wear them, it's an aesthetic!" Kenya enthusiastically says, maybe _too_ excited about this whole thing. "Chitose, hurry up, you need to make me pretty, too!"

 

Shiraishi beams, then pulls away and fastens on his wig cap and a long blonde wig, swishing it around experimentally. “Ah, Echizen! You look adorable! Wait, I have just the thing for you if you want to keep short hair.”

 

He fishes in the bag of “extras” they’ve kept from last year, emerging triumphant with a headband he fastens to Ryouma’s head. “Perfect! Wait, I think there’s a tail as well.”

 

There’s a crashing noise as Kintarou falls off of something and doesn’t even make an effort to get up again. It’s nearly drowned out by a frantic hiss and the sound of Kaidou running for the door.

 

Shiraishi beams, then pulls away and fastens on his wig cap and a long blonde wig, swishing it around experimentally. “Ah, Echizen! You look adorable! Wait, I have just the thing for you if you want to keep short hair.”

 

He fishes in the bag of “extras” they’ve kept from last year, emerging triumphant with a headband he fastens to Ryouma’s head. “Perfect! Wait, I think there’s a tail as well.”

 

There’s a crashing noise as Kintarou falls off of something and doesn’t even make an effort to get up again. It’s nearly drowned out by a frantic hiss and the sound of Kaidou running for the door.

 

"Ahh, yes, that's the desired effect," Chitose readily agrees, stepping back to admire Shiraishi's handiwork. "We always need a maid with cat ears. Yuuji was acceptable, but _this_ …" 

 

"I don't want a tail," Ryouma warily protests, backing away before that can be fastened to his skirts, and in the background, Zaizen makes quick work of blocking the door and keeping Kaidou from leaving immediately. 

 

“You don’t want me in here,” Kaidou mutters, not meeting Zaizen’s eyes. “Coach might need help. Especially if there’s a tail.”

 

“Of course there’s a tail!” Shiraishi says triumphantly, fishing it out of the box and clipping it on despite Ryouma’s protests. “You can charge extra to let the customers touch the ears and tail if you want, or you can simply have them be off-limits. Ah, you’re so cute! I’m confident this will be a huge success!” He’d been mildly worried about how they’d make it work without Koharu and Yuuji, but this is a step in the right direction.

 

“Koshimae! I can touch the ears and tail for free, right? Right?”

 

Ryouma huffs unhappily, and stalks over to his locker to shove his clothes inside. The tail keeps swishing when he walks, and that's just no good at all. "Fine, whatever."

 

"Don't forget the stockings, Echizen!" Kenya crows, and Ryouma squawks as he's hauled back and the stockings in questions are shoved into his hand. 

 

"You can wear the maid outfit if you want, you know," Zaizen lowly reminds his boyfriend. "I think you'd be cute, and you've got that, like, shy moe thing going on. I mean, if you don't wanna do it, that's fine, but it's sort of stupid and fun? I dunno."

 

“Don’t be dumb, no one wants to see that,” Kaidou mutters. He can’t quite keep his fingers from reaching out, brushing over the soft crinkly material of Zaizen’s getup, some goth loli thing with immense frills and black lace. “Echizen has that angle covered. I’d be a waste of a dress.”

 

Zaizen rolls his eyes. "No way. Echizen's the tsundere, obviously, that's totally different. You're not gonna be a waste, but I'm not gonna force you or anything." He hesitates, and his voice drops. "I can totally bring one of these dresses home later, if you'd rather--"

 

"Aaaand Chitose, it's your turn!"

 

"You're way too into this, Kenya," Chitose remarks as he's shoved relentlessly into the dressing room. "Is this the only way you ever--"

 

"Listen, your jokes about my sex life aren't funny and that's why you should be failing every class at this damned school." 

 

“The teachers all think his dark and surrealist humor is exceptional,” Shiraishi informs Kenya with a smile. “That’s why they grade his essays so high.”

 

Kaidou shifts closer to Zaizen, though he can’t quite look up to meet his eyes. “Everyone would laugh.” That’s the problem with this stupid school. He can never tell if anyone is laughing at him, or just laughing in general.

 

"I'm not gonna laugh." Zaizen glances over his shoulder, making sure no one's paying attention before he gently knocks his head against Kaidou's. "I think you'd look really cute. It's up to you, though."

 

"His humor isn't dark and surrealist! It's just mean!"

 

"Newsflash, I'm kind of mean," Chitose lightly calls from behind the curtain, and Kenya scowls, stomping off to go and get his high heels on.

 

Ryouma warily pokes at his cat ears. "This is gonna be such a bad day," he says resignedly. 

 

“I...” Kaidou tries to clear his throat, and somehow manages to fail at that. “I don’t know if I could talk to anyone like that. Ugh, it’s a stupid idea, I’d just mess everyone up, never mind--”

 

“Ahh, Echizen-kun, don’t forget to make yourself a charm point!” Shiraishi thinks for a minute, then decides, “Why don’t you try meowing? That’s cute, right, Chitose?”

 

Somehow, despite not having gotten up after the last time, Kintarou falls down again.

 

“Kin-chan, _please_ put your underwear on.”

 

"Kaoru--what if you just helped Coach run the whole thing?" That's pulled out of his ass for sure, but it's obvious that Kaidou kinda wants to do it, but he doesn't want to get freaked out by the whole thing…so, well--"Then you're not waiting on customers and stuff," Zaizen lowly points out. "But you can still be part of the team."

 

Ryouma hesitates, then slowly, begrudgingly, puts up one hand and curls it slightly. "Like this, right?" he deadpans. " _Meow_."

 

"Oh, do it again, Echizen, I didn't get a chance to see," Chitose teases as he pulls open the curtain and waltzes out as shamelessly as if he were still wearing his school uniform. 

 

"You're gross, Chitose-sempai." Ryouma stares, his head tilting to follow the whole length of Chitose's legs. "Those have _got_ to be special order."

 

Chitose plucks at the top of one of his thigh highs before he throws Kintarou's underwear over to him. "Sort of obvious, yeah. Kura, do you want to finish my hair?" 

 

“Sure!” Shiraishi climbs up onto a stool to give himself a decent vantage point, and starts styling. “Ah, you emphasize your charm points so well, everyone! We’re going to make this an excellent maid cafe!”

 

Kaidou wavers for another minute, then stalks into the dressing room, grabbing the spare (for emergencies, he’d said when he’d arrived with it--in case anyone lost or tore theirs) and shutting the curtains with a hiss.

 

Kintarou sits up, blinking. “Kaidou’s gonna do it too? Yay, I won’t have the biggest arms of all the maids!”

 

Zaizen kicks at the back of one of Kintarou's knees. "He's doing it to make sure that you're not stupid, and he's gonna help Osamu out. That means Shiraishi can spend more time getting tips."

 

"Kaidou, I'll do your makeup if you want," Chitose calls over to the dressing room, and Zaizen just hopes that Kaidou doesn't fall through the floor. 

 

"So stupid," Ryouma mutters, fiddling with his cat ears again. "Seigaku never had to do this kind of thing."

 

"And that's why Tokyo schools are boring!" Kenya announces, his newly clipped in ponytail swaying with every movement. "It's fine, we'll be richer than them soon enough!"

 

"Then we won't have to do this?" Ryouma asks tiredly.

 

"No! Then we'll do it more often to show our superiority!"

 

“Z-Zaizen?” Kaidou calls uncertainly. “Can you come in here to see if I did it right?” What the hell kind of dressing room doesn’t even have a mirror? That’s right, one made by thumbtacking a curtain to the ceiling.

 

“I think you’re perfect, Echizen-kun,” Shiraishi declares. “You’re the perfect rude and apathetic maid. Zaizen, you’ll need to find a new routine this year, I think! Can you be a little more....uh...rebellious? Show off your piercings. Kenya, nice hair! Kin-chan, underwear, please!”

 

“Don’t wanna!”

 

"I'll put my tongue piercing in," Zaizen wearily tosses over his shoulder as he steps around them to go into the very makeshift dressing room--and, yeah, um, obviously it's right. He rubs at the back of his neck, wishing his own skirt was longer, suddenly, but at least he's got three million petticoats or something, god. "Y-yeah, it looks good," he mutters. "Turn around, I'll tie the bow up and stuff." 

 

Kaidou has never blushed harder in his life. He presses his hands to his face, turning and letting Zaizen tie him in, and tries not to feel quite so pleased at the way the fabric feels against his skin. “There’s no mirror,” he murmurs. “It’s hard to tell if it looks stupid or not. You....you look cute.”

 

"You definitely look cute," Zaizen mutters, and he fishes out his phone with shaky hands after tying that stupid ribbon. "Here, my phone's got a mirror, it's not like great or anything…" He trails off, switching to the app, and holds it back a bit so Kaidou can get a good look. "See? Not stupid."

 

Kaidou swallows hard, and shifts an involuntary step back. The puffy sleeves hide the bulge of his shoulders, and the ribbon and skirt do a surprisingly good job of making it look like he has a slender waist. Slowly, he reaches a hand up and tugs off the bandana, letting his hair fall into his face. “Uh...I don’t know what to do with my hair. Chitose-sempai said he’d help with the...the face stuff.” He knows what it is. A huge amount of Kaidou’s energy goes into pretending he doesn’t know things that he does, because no normal young man would know them.

 

"Echizen didn't use the black hair extensions, so I can put them in for you. You'd..um….you'd look pretty, just having really long hair that's down and stuff." Zaizen shoves his phone away again. "Chitose-sempai's way too good at makeup, fair warning. He was friends with way too many girls in Kyushu, pretty sure." 

 

Kaidou draws in a deep breath, then twitches a little in what might be a nod. “Th-thanks. You know.” _For giving me the courage to do this._

 

He brushes a kiss over Zaizen’s hand, the only part of him not covered in makeup, and ducks out of the curtain before he can change his mind. “Chi...Chitose-sempai? Do you have time?”

 

Shiraishi’s eyes widen. “Kaidou! You look better than I anticipated, very nice! Ah, I think we have more hair somewhere, don’t we?”

 

“Not fair! Kaidou is way prettier than I thought!” Kintarou tugs on his underwear, _finally_ , and turns to face Ryouma. “Koshimae, am I a cute maid?”

 

Ryouma blinks at Kintarou, then shrugs awkwardly, and reaches out to pull on one of his leopard-print skirt layers. "It…yeah, it suits you. I guess we're both cats. If you're a leopard, what kind of cat am I?"

 

Zaizen, still blushing over having his hand kissed, god, that's so _fucking_ lame, hurries out and snatches up the hair extensions that Ryouma tossed aside. "Come here and let me do your hair first, it won't take long." 

 

"Whenever you're ready, Kaidou," Chitose tosses over, handing Shiraishi a last hair tie to finish off the last narrow little braid that he was working on. "I wonder how many girls are going to hand you a confession even when you're dressed like this, Kura." The tally was about 15 last year, if he recalls correctly. 

 

Shiraishi binds off the last tie, and hops down from his stool. “As long as they buy drinks, it’ll be fine. Maybe we can get everyone some new grip tape and a practice stash of pressurized balls this year if it goes _really_ well,” he says, imagining with delight. “Or new parts for the Lobster, it’s trying to die again.”

 

Kaidou awkwardly sits in front of Chitose, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see any kind of strange judgment that he’s _sure_ is still coming. Chitose doesn’t seem to have been brainwashed by the school of laughter and happiness just yet, and probably thinks he’s strange as hell. “Thanks, sempai.”

 

Kintarou drapes himself over Ryouma’s shoulders, rubbing his face against Ryouma’s hair. “You’re definitely a cute black kitty. Maybe a mooncat like in the book!”

 

"What's a moon cat?" Ryouma mutters, swaying underneath Kintarou's weight as per usual. Whatever, the important thing is that Kintarou is looking at _him_ and telling _him_ that he's the one that's pretty and cute and he's also falling over because of _him_ and not because of Shiraishi who really does look like a hot blonde chick.

 

"Mm, no problem. Not like I've got to do much here, you have _really_ long eyelashes," Chitose praises as he gets to work. "Nice job, Zaizen."

 

Zaizen glares as he fumbles with his stupid tongue jewelry and nearly drops it. "Gross, sempai, what's that supposed to mean?"

 

"You guys take _forever_ , I wish Koharu and Yuuji were here, they're _always_ so good at this!" Kenya laments, and nearly topples over in his heels in his haste to continue pacing impatiently. 

 

"I'm wondering if your cousin's going to like those heels if you break them off before he even gets to see them--"

 

"Shut up, Chitose!"

 

“Hoooooooi!” Shiraishi calls, folding his arms over his chest and surveying his corps. “Five minutes until we start! I assume everyone is ready?” The maid outfit and thigh-high stockings might not be lending him _quite_ as much authority as he hopes, but at least he’s nice and tall in the heels (which are not nearly as hard to walk in as he’d first imagined). 

 

Kaidou looks up at Chitose through lashes that are longer than he’s used to with the mascara on them. “Is it...do I look stupid?” He’s _very_ convinced that someone is going to tell him he looks stupid.

 

Kintarou leans in close, whispering loudly in Ryouma’s ear, “Mooncats are the prettiest cats on the planet, they come to live in the light of the moon when their true love is nearby and they can totally shoot lasers from their claws!”

 

Ryouma glances down at his own nails, surveying them critically. "…All right," he relents. "I"m a mooncat." 

 

"If I were looking for a girlfriend," Chitose says to Kaidou with a wink as he straightens up and pulls away, "I'd date you."

 

"Chitose-sempai, stop being gross to the captain," Zaizen sourly mutters.

 

Kaidou fights the twin urges to assign laps and to faint, and somehow manages to do neither--though it’s a near miss. “Th-thanks, Sempai.”

 

With a great deal of drama and flair, Shiraishi throws open the door. “Shitenhouji Maid Cafe, Year Two: Fight-O! Don don, don don don!”

 

“SHITENHOUJI!”

 

“Samu-chan, the rest is up to you!”

 

"Why does this deserve a cheer?" Ryouma flatly asks.

 

Osamu, for his part, refuses to uh, really _look_ at Shiraishi right now. This is going to be a problem all day, he's very sure of it, but he has _important_ things to manage, like how there's already a crowd of girls hovering outside of the school grounds ( _and_ a smattering of boys, whoops). "U-uh, right, I'll be managing fees to get in at the door--"

 

"Kaidou's gonna help," Zaizen speaks up, irritably shoving his stupid clipped on ponytail out of the way. "If anyone's creepy, he can actually beat them up."

 

"Said as if I'm not capable, you little brat," Osamu mutters, finally putting out what is definitely his fifth cigarette. "But whatever, the more the merrier. From there, it's up to you all to take orders and collect, uh, reasonable tips. Don't let these ladies get too friendly with you! Chitose, put your heels on already."

 

"And be even taller?" is the weary sigh to follow. 

 

"Kitten heels are the ideal," Kenya advises, and Chitose gives him a look that's obviously intensely curious about where this information even _comes_ from. 

 

“You should definitely _not_ wear kitten heels! Wear the highest ones you have! Your legs are your charm point, so show them off proudly!” Shiraishi exclaims. “We must all do our best for the tennis club. Let’s get that Lobster fixed!” It’s not _too_ crazy a goal, if they get as many tips as last year. “Samu-chan, open the doors!”

 

At some point throughout the day, Osamu is sure that he'll be able to look at Shiraishi without slowly collapsing to the ground. "Good luck, boys!" 

 

"Okay, but you're definitely not gonna wear your highest ones, right?" Kenya hisses in the general upward direction of Chitose's ear. "They're like, 15 centimeters!"

 

"God forbid if I take any of your leg business away." 

 

"You're all really gross," Zaizen flatly says, and guides Kaidou to his station at the door. 

 

Kaidou looks more than ready to hide behind the door for the rest of the day, though the red in his face has died to a pleased little flush that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. “I’m opening the--”

 

The second the lock clicks open, the door is flung wide, and Oshitari Yuushi strides in ahead of a flock of girls all screaming, “ _Kurariiiiiiin_!” 

 

“What a delightful turnout,” he says, one eyebrow twitching as he takes a table for himself. “Manager, I assume you have a menu?”

 

 _It's weird, Kenya,_ Osamu thinks, side-eyeing the other Oshitari as he artfully passes over the, uh, menu of maids (this was Koharu's idea, god help him). "Of course! And who can we have to serve you today?" 

 

"How are there seriously this many people?" Ryouma grouses underneath his breath, repressing the urge to hide behind Kintarou for the near future. 

 

Yuushi looks up over the rim of his glasses, blinking. “Why do only _some_ of them have cat ears? What kind of cut-rate establishment are you running here? Never mind, just bring me your fastest maid with a coffee.”

 

“The maid cafe is Shitenhouji’s most popular event, Koshimae!” Kintarou explains, giving Ryouma’s waist a squeeze. “And they must have heard how cute you look!”

 

Shiraishi staggers out of a gaggle of girls, 1000 yen notes stuffed into the top of his thigh-highs, looking slightly bedraggled. “Ah...does anyone want to set me up with nine cups of tea? Please? Samu-chan?”

 

Even if the turnout was exceptional last year, this year looks to be shocking. "Kenyan, get over it!" Osamu shouts over the crowds. "With coffee! _Quickly!"_ That should do the trick.

 

The plaid is definitely turning to speed lines again. "I'm on it, Samu-chan!"

 

"All right, ladies, one at a time, or if you want to share, it's four to a table! Touching isn't allowed except with permission, watch those hands, missy, come on now--"

 

"Uwaaa, Ryoko-chaaaan!!"

 

"You can buy time with Ryoko and Kyoko as a set, don't forget!" Osamu tosses up over the swarm of girls, and Ryouma contemplates dying.

 

Shiraishi grabs his tray of coffee from Kaidou, says, “Thank you, miss,” without thinking, and turns back to the swarm, making his way delicately through the crowds. “Perfect service. There is no waste in my maid service!”

 

“Kurariiiiin! Say ecstasy!”

 

“Koharu, what are you doing here?”

 

A group of three girls, all crying for some reason, wave money desperately at Osamu. “Ryoko and Kyoko, please! Can they say ‘nyaa’?”

 

“Nyaa nyaa nyaa, Nee-chan!”

 

“UWAAAA!”

 

"…Nyaa," Ryouma mumbles, reaching for the bill of his nonexistent hat to tug it down, but it's obviously not there, and the girls just scream louder for some reason. 

 

"I hope you're enjoying your extremely _fast_ service, Yuushi-kun," Kenya hums, plopping himself down onto his cousin's knee. "I am, after all, the Speed Star of the Maid Cafe--"

 

"How the hell is that a charm point?" Zaizen deadpans.

 

Kenya hisses, his fake ponytail swaying and nearly whacking his cousin in the face. "You shut up, no one wants a gothic lolita maid!"

 

Zaizen jabs a thumb over his shoulder, where there's a small, but highly dedicated line of mouth-breathing girls staring at him, wide-eyed. "Try again, Kenya-sempai."

 

"CALL ME KENYAN!!"

 

"Isn't that a Nationality, though. Like, I'm pretty sure it's offensive to--"

 

"Uwaaaaaa, Senri-chan's legs are like a ballerina's!!!" 

 

"So tall!" 

 

"I want to be princess carried!!"

 

"No one here has taste!" Kenya snaps, and whirls around in Yuushi's lap to scowl at him. "Right, Yuushi?"

 

“Definitely,” Yuushi says, one arm around Kenya. “You don’t have ears? Disappointing,” he says with a sigh, trying and failing to stop his head from turning nearly 180 degrees as Chitose Senri walks by. “How...those are the _longest_ legs I’ve ever _seen_...”

 

Shiraishi staggers out of the gaggle of girls again, handing a fistful of money over to Osamu. His wig is askew, his dress pulled off one shoulder, and one of his garters is undone. “Glass of water?” he asks, wild-eyed.

 

"Oi! Yuushi, watch where your eyes are going! _Oi!_ "

 

"Uh," Osamu manages, one-handedly taking the cash, and shoving a glass of water into Shiraishi's direction with the other. "Kurarin, do you need a second? Tag Zaizen in, his customers just sit around forever and aren't nearly as uh, demanding--"

 

“I think they’ll start crying if I don’t go back,” Shiraishi whispers, taking a long gulp of water. “Ahh, Samu-chan, these are my least favorite type of girls. Help me with my bow? I think it got untied,” he says, pulling his dress back onto his shoulder, adjusting his wig. 

 

The door opens again, and Tachibana Kippei blinks around at the cafe, brow furrowed. This...does _not_ look like the bake sale he’d intended to attend. What kind of a fundraiser is this, anyway? Where is the tennis team?

 

"Turn around, turn around, I've got you," Osamu says, spinning Shiraishi around a bit to get at his bow. "Get Chitose to help you, then, you two usually work well with lunatics like this. If they get too touchy, he can get on their case. Ahhh, another guest, welcome! Go on, Ryoko!"

 

Ryouma grinds his teeth, but sighs, prying himself slowly away from the crowd of girls that aren't really paying, they're just _cooing_ over him. "Welcome, Honored Guest," he says flatly, straightening his cat ears. "This is the second annual Shitenhouji Maid Cafe, can I offer you a menu." 

 

Tachibana frowns, looking around the maid cafe in general confusion. “Uh...” He’d taken the night bus from Tokyo for this? “Yeah, I was looking for the tennis team fundraiser. I guess they’re having one today too? You know where that is?” Not that this doesn’t look like _fun_ , but it’s not what he’d spent that money to come do.

 

Is he really _that_ convincing? Ryouma honestly does have to wonder. Hmm. Well, that could be a worse thing to realize, he supposes. Kintarou sure seems to think so. "Tachibana-san," he says on a sigh, "this is the tennis team fundraiser. I'm Echizen. Echizen Ryouma."

 

There’s a long moment, and a series of fast blinks. “Echi...Echizen? _Ryouma_?” 

 

Now that he looks closer, there is a sort of...Echizen-ness about the pretty little kitty maid in front of him. Well. That slight erection is suddenly a lot more confusing and a hell of a lot more embarrassing. “Uh. Can I sit down? Ha, cute ears,” he adds, reaching out to touch the headband.

 

Ryouma slowly leans backwards, his expression still very, very neutral. "There's a charge if you want to touch the ears."

 

“Eh? How much?”

 

"1000 yen."

 

Tachibana carefully inserts his hand into his pocket, and leaves it there. “Just a table, please.”

 

Ryouma shrugs, and turns on his heel to lead Tachibana to one of the smaller tables. "You have ten minutes to request a maid or you'll have to pay a generic surcharge," he says in a very, very bored monotone. "Here's the menu of maids. I'm supposed to tell you that we're offering specials on pairs for the first time this year. I'm also supposed to tell you that we have tea and coffee, but fair warning, it's not like, good or anything."

 

Tachibana looks down at the menu, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? Chitose is actually doing this?” He sets it down and hands it back. “Okay, this I’ve got to see.”

 

Another shrug, and Ryouma turns away, his clipped-on tail slowly swishing with the moment. "Chitose-sem…ugh. Sorry, whatever. Senri-chan, a guest!" His voice drops again, and he glances back to Tachibana. "He'll collect the bill, it's 1000 yen for the first twenty minutes, 500 yen for every 15 minutes after that. No, that doesn't include a drink." 

 

"Depending on how cute they are, I might waive--" Chitose pauses in mid-step and drops the act immediately, his expression clouding. "Kippei."

 

"Ryokooooo, get over here!"

 

Ryouma rolls his eyes and slowly drags himself away, leaving Chitose to sigh and fold his arms, rocking his weight back onto one of his heels. "You seriously came all the way down to Osaka."

 

“I was invited.” Tachibana leans back in his chair, openly surveying Chitose up and down. “They put you in some seriously high heels, huh? I’m impressed you can walk in those without falling over.” Chitose’s legs are absurdly long, encased in thigh-highs that have to be custom-ordered, baring just a scant inch of flesh at the top and beneath the skirt. “Coffee?”

 

Chitose offers him a fleeting, dismissive smile as he whirls gracefully on one heel to walk away. "It's my charm point, I'm not allowed to fall over. I'll be right back."

 

He, apparently, is glaring so much that even Osamu has to say something when he goes to retrieve Tachibana's coffee. "Service with a smile, Chitose-kun!"

 

"I'm not a wind-up doll," Chitose mutters gloomily, grabbing the tray and coffee. "I'd rather stab myself in the other eye." 

 

Zaizen glances up from his iPod. "Violence isn't the answer, Chitose-sempai."

 

"Sure it isn't." He's not going to stalk his way back over, but he certainly takes his sweet time. "You didn't _have_ to come all the way down to Osaka just because you were invited," Chitose says as he sets the coffee down, still attempting to piece together the fact that Tachibana _is here_. No matter that he said that he would be, it's still such a stupid thing to go this far for. 

 

“In my defense, I didn’t know it was a maid cafe,” Tachibana points out, sliding the coffee closer to him to take a nice long whiff. Not bad, for cheap coffee, which is mostly what he drinks, to be honest. “I thought you guys were having a bake sale or something.” He shrugs, and grimaces as he feels his wallet in his pocket. “I would have brought a lot more money.”

 

"If you're sweet, I'll give you a discount," Chitose dryly says, dragging over another chair and taking a seat primly. He's probably too good at wearing frilly things--at least, Miyuki would say so. She'd be far more at home in a butler cafe, and would look the part more, besides. "Shitenhouji used to have bake sales and things like that, but this was Koharu's idea last year, and, well…it's made more money than anything ever has before. I wouldn't be here because I quit, but…Kura begged."

 

 _I bet he just wanted you to get dressed up like that,_ Tachibana thinks darkly, but doesn’t say it. No, actually, he does. “I bet he just wanted to see you all dressed up nice.” Just so he doesn’t sound too jealous, he adds, “I mean, because your usual stuff is so...not form fitting.” Shit, there’s no way not to make it weird. Instead of talking more, he buries his face in his coffee cup.

 

 _Better. Or is it?_ Chitose's eyes narrow a little bit, wondering if he's terribly off base. Oh well, only one way to find out. "Mm, no, it's because we're offering package deals this year. Apparently, we were a highly requested coupling. These girls have _plans_ , and have been saving since this event last year."

 

Tachibana drains the rest of his coffee in one hot gulp, and slides the cup back. “How much did that tiny cup of ground coffee cost me?” he asks, shooting a surly glare in the direction of Shiraishi. “He looks like he’s too busy for you.”

 

"That's because he's so pretty," Chitose says without batting an eye. "500 yen, you're welcome. Can I get you anything else, Tokyo Guest-san?" 

 

“Didn’t I pay for twenty minutes of your time?” Tachibana asks, growling a little. “You’re supposed to keep me company, right? Don’t run off just yet.”

 

 _I would literally rather deal with these clingy lunatics all day than this,_ Chitose wearily thinks, but he neatly crosses his legs at the ankle instead. "Fair warning, my usual shtick isn't going to work on you. You're not the usual type that snatches me up." 

 

“Oh? Your type is...” Tachibana shrugs, mystified. “Legs? Guys that like legs? _Girls_ that like legs?” The next question isn’t one that he’s really prepared to ask, but he’s not a fucking coward. “Which one of those do you prefer in this kind of setting?”

 

"It doesn't matter," Chitose answers with a little smile, _hoping_ that confuses the hell out of him. "Ah, but, I usually attract girls that are very much interested in being…how should I phrase it…being swept off of their feet by another woman. If it's guys, though, it's all about the legs, but that's so boring that it's pathetic." 

 

“You shouldn’t say it’s pathetic. Guys just like legs. Makes us think about what’s at the top.” That’s getting _way_ too close for comfort, and Tachibana hastily changes the subject. “You’re just mad because I haven’t been sleeping around and there’s no one for you to poach,” he counters with a grin.

 

 _That's probably because you cut your hair and no one likes it._ "That sounds like your problem, not mine. Is it a matter of no time, or a serious lack of skill in high school, I wonder…"

 

“Oi, Manager!” Tachibana says with a laugh, leaning around Chitose. “Can I get a maid that’s less rude than this one?”

 

"Senri-chan! I told you, service with a smile!"

 

Chitose's eyes roll towards the ceiling, and he then fixes a pointed stare upon Tachibana. "Do you want me to kneel down and kiss your hand instead?" he deadpans. "I'm very elegant and dashing, or so I've been told." 

 

Tachibana’s smile slowly fades from his face, and he leans in close, more intent now. “I’d settle for you pulling the stick out of your ass and having a real conversation with me. I thought we were finally cool.”

 

Chitose shifts his own weight forward, resting his elbows onto his knees. "I don't have a stick in my ass, thanks. I just don't know what you expect me to talk about with you."

 

“Um...anything?” This is way harder than it should be, and Tachibana isn’t even sure why. He looks down into the empty tiny coffee cup, then back up to meet Chitose’s eyes. “It’s not like we’ve ever had a problem talking. How’s your dad? Did he ever put that third bathroom in?”

 

"He's fine. His hair's really long right now. And no, he added on another studio instead." He's probably supposed to offer more than that, but the longer he looks at Tachibana, the more his throat just wants to close up. "Is your eye all right?" 

 

Tachibana clears his throat, and looks away. “Yeah. They said it’ll be fine. The uh...the retina did something, but didn’t detach.” _I almost wish they’d said something different._ “You still playing shogi? And beating everyone?”

 

That's an odd mix of relief and a very strange, irritating surge of jealousy that Chitose absolutely hates. "Yeah. Did you ever learn what any of the pieces were?" 

 

“I got a _Shogi for Beginners_ book in the mail on my birthday last year.” He raises an eyebrow. “I know at least a few of them. Wanna play sometime?”

 

Chitose is probably going to blame Miyuki for that. "…Maybe. It's not like you're going to come down to Osaka or Kyushu again any time soon, though." 

 

Tachibana sighs, and leans back, thunking Chitose’s leg with his foot. “Dumbass. I will if you want me to. I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

"First time in years." It takes effort not to withdraw his leg. Just that stupid little kick is electric, and his fingers twitch in his lap. "Just saying. You seem pretty busy with your team at Fudoumine."

 

“ _My_ team is all in middle school for this year.” Tachibana’s face clouds, and he mutters, “You’re the one that left without saying goodbye. I figured you didn’t want to talk to me anymore. If that wasn’t true, you should have come to _me_.”

 

Shiraishi edges closer to Osamu, hissing, “They’re getting too intense! We need to keep the atmosphere in here light! What do I do?” At some point, he’s lost one of his stockings.

 

Osamu shrugs heavily, and tries to warily judge exactly how that stocking came off. Did they tear it? Shiraishi seems intact, at least… "You, uh. Well, if you're really concerned…no, bad idea." Just because Shiraishi plopping himself into Chitose's lap would generate more tips doesn't mean it's the _best_ plan of action. "Just let them be, if they start yelling, that's one thing, but…"

 

Chitose sneezes, and glowers over his shoulder, wondering who, exactly, is talking about them now. "I needed to leave," he mutters, glancing to the side. "You could have chased after me a little bit more. It's like you didn't even care." 

 

 _That_ , he realizes, _sounds like a gross, clingy girlfriend._ He'd like to blame the atmosphere and mostly the dress, but there's only so much one can attribute to environment. 

 

Tachibana lurches up, grabbing Chitose’s arm and yanking him back into his seat before he can get too far. “I paid for twenty minutes,” he says, low and intent. “I’ll pay for more if it’s the only way to get you to talk to me after all this time. _Chase_ you? I _hurt_ you, I had no right to do that!”

 

Chitose feels his face flush hot, and literally, what would be better than being so damnably attracted to every single thing that Tachibana is doing right now would be a chopstick to his good eye. Conflicting, yes, but it's not like he can _stop_ feeling that way, not when Tachibana's hand is rough and hot on his arm in every single right way. "'Not having the right' to do something hasn't ever stopped you before," he mumbles. "Did you have the right to punch your coach at Fudoumine in the face and take over the club? There are a lot of people that would say you didn't, but you did it anyway, because you _wanted_ to."

 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tachibana hisses, not letting go of Chitose’s arm for a second, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I did that because it was right. And I thought I was gonna get expelled for it, and I would have deserved it.” His speech is slipping back to Kyushu-ben, and that makes him irrationally angry. “That I could accept. If I went after you--I could have...it would have been for me, not for you. I could have hurt you. That...I couldn’t accept.”

 

 _You already did it once, why not again?_ is on the tip of his tongue, but it refuses to come out. "That doesn't change any part of what I wanted you to do. You didn't have to quit tennis, or cut your hair, or…" Chitose trails off, a frustrated exhale following, and he sits back enough to tug against Tachibana's grip. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Let me go."

 

“You have the most impossible expectations of people!” Tachibana doesn’t let go, even when his fingers start to ache. He’s stronger, always has been, and his fingers dig in hard. “You _know_ I’m not a mind reader. Just come out and say it--you still blame me for your eye. I killed your dream.”

 

He lets go, finally, and leans forward, elbows on the table. “There’s nothing I’m ever going to be able to do about that. I thought...I thought after last week, we could maybe be friends again, but...”

 

"How can I have impossible expectations when I'm not even asking you for anything now?!" That's definitely too sharp and too snappy for the rest of the room to ignore, and Chitose pulls himself to his feet in an instant. "I don't blame you for that, I've forgiven you already, so just forget about it." 

 

Stalking off in high heels isn't exactly the most _regal_ way to end an argument, but whatever. He can't _breathe_ , he needs out, especially when his eyes sting and his throat is so dry that it hurts to swallow. _Idiot, idiot, idiot._ The verdict is out if that mantra applies to Tachibana, or himself.

 

There's definitely a lot of hushed muttering going on between the line of girls previously waiting for Chitose's attention--"Was that staged? Isn't this just like a real BL? So cool!!"--and even Zaizen can't help but cringe. "We're fucked, that just set a standard," he says underneath his breath, and sticks his earbuds right the hell back in.

 

Tachibana only barely refrains from slamming his fist down on the table. There’s no need to get a reputation for violence down in Osaka, too. 

 

Spotting Ryouma walking by, he flags the kid down, tugging him into the opposite chair. “Hey. Here’s 1000 yen. Talk to me for a minute?”

 

Ryouma blinks, then shrugs, takes the bill (and subsequently stuffs it into the top of his stocking) before flopping down into the chair. "I've never seen Chitose-sempai get mad like that," he says. "You must be pretty bad company, so I might charge more." 

 

“What’s his fucking deal?” Tachibana is apparently not even going to pretend to have other interests before he goes right into what’s bothering him. “Is he usually grumpy? Unhappy? Pissy?” God, those cat ears are unfortunately cute.

 

Honestly, Ryouma has no idea why he's usually roped into being a sounding board, but that's just a thing with Japanese tennis players…apparently. He fiddles with his cat ears again, making sure they're sitting straight. "Usually, he's pretty laid back, but he doesn't talk all that much. Kintarou--uhh, Kyoko says he brings the spring, but I dunno about that." 

 

“Brings the...whatever.” _That means the problem is me._

 

The answer is so stark it hurts, and Tachibana sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay. Got it.” He pulls out a thousand yen, and carefully tucks it into one stocking before standing up. “Thanks for your time, kid. Keep working on that technique. You were impressive at Nationals, I can’t wait to see you play again.”

 

Ryouma adjusts the placement of the yen slightly, understanding the concept of maximum sexiness. "Yeah, I know. I'd beat you in a heartbeat, Tachibana-san." He pauses, then adds, because it seems pretty relevant even if he hasn't been asked: "He's not dating Shiraishi-san, if that's what you want to know." 

 

“I didn’t ask that.” That might have come out too fast.

 

"You looked like you wanted to know. There's a rumor, too, so, yeah."

 

Tachibana pauses, looking over at where Shiraishi is currently up on tiptoe to try and whisper something he assumes is soothing into Chitose’s ear, and making it within about 6 inches. “They look pretty freaking close.”

 

"I didn't say they weren't close." Ryouma stands up, smoothing down his skirts. "I just said they weren't dating."

 

“Are they fucking?” Too blunt, too embarrassing, and Tachibana pushes his chair in. “You don’t have to answer that,” he mutters, and stalks out of the cafe. What he’s going to do for the next twelve hours until his bus arrives is a goddamn mystery.

 

Ryouma shrugs--he would have answered that, it's pretty obvious, after all--and trots away from the table to pull his cash out of his stockings and hand it over. "Shiraishi-sempai, Chitose-sempai, he's gone." 

 

Shiraishi breathes a sigh of relief, and resumes trying to bandage Chitose’s arm. “Even if he didn’t break the skin, you should still let me wrap it up. He could have seriously hurt you, these bruises look deep.”

 

"It's really fine, Kura." It's a mark of his patience with Shiraishi that he isn't trying to pull away, let alone that he hasn't simply _left_. Chitose briefly stares at the swinging door left in Tachibana's wake. "This kind of thing is usuallymy fault, anyway." 

 

"That guy is way too intense!" Kenya announces as he stalks over, apparently finally free from his cousin's clutches (or at least, free for now). "You'd have a lot more fun without him. Hey, if you're gonna bandage him up, Shiraishi, at least make sure he matches you!"

 

"That's dumb, Oshitari-sempai."

 

"No, it's cool. I have great ideas!"

 

Shiraishi resigns himself to simply hovering, worried, around Chitose for the rest of the day. “As long as you’re all right,” he says doubtfully. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?” Somehow, he doesn’t think Chitose would.

 

The door tinkles, and he turns around, beaming. “Ahh, Fuji! Enter, honored guest!”

 

Mizuki looks around, smirking to himself and Fuji. “They certainly know how to manage a turnout, don’t they?”

 

“Oi, Kenyan-chan,” Yuushi calls, waving his cup. “I’m on empty, what kind of service is this?”

 

Kenya rolls his eyes, and stops over to get his cousin another drink. "Ask nicely or you're never gonna get any good service again!"

 

"Oh, look, that one's your type," Fuji mildly points out to Mizuki before he offers a smile in Shiraishi's direction. "Don't you look pretty, Shiraishi." 

 

"I've got a queue to deal with," Chitose murmurs, getting up and escaping before any attention that isn't from girls is turned to him. Girls, at least, are easy to deal with for right now. 

 

"Ahhh, welcome, welcome! Fuji Shuusuke and friend, let's get you a table and a menu, shall we?" Osamu hums, ushering them in from the door. They're just lucky they haven't _lost_ Chitose for the day, but it's only a matter of time. "Kurarin, will you see to them before checking on your other tables?"

 

“Of course, Samu-chan!” Shiraishi’s eyes sparkle, and he offers two empty cups and the menu. “Welcome to the Shitenhouji Maid Cafe, year two! Here we have a wide selection of beautiful maids--some of them cat themed--for your amusement. Feel free to look through our selection. You have thirty minutes to choose a companion, or you will need to pay a general charge. A thousand yen earns you twenty minutes with your companion of choice, which does not include a drink. Is there anything I can offer to help you make a selection?”

 

Mizuki peruses the book with great interest. “Ah, Fujiko-chan, you’d look so cute in one of these. What about the goth-loli, hmm? Do I see a tongue ring?”

 

Fuji, for his part, is rather distracted by the fact that Shiraishi still only has one stocking. "Did you get eaten alive earlier?" he asks him, unable to help himself. "How did they get it off?" He pauses, and briefly glances down at the menu. "Also, that's _definitely_ Echizen."

 

Shiraishi beams. “Some of our patrons are very enthusiastic about their support of the tennis club,” he says, wondering if he should just take the other one off already. He’s lost a hair bow at some point as well.

 

Mizuki’s eyes widen. “That...is indeed. Have you had your fill of him yet, or do you need Echizen, ah, _Ryoko_ pouring you a cup of coffee and sitting on your lap? Oh, he has cat ears, how darling.”

 

"I wish Seigaku had had things like this," Fuji says wistfully. "Eiji would have looked cute in cat ears. Mm, if the patrons are enthusiastic, then at least you're having fun--" He glances at the menu. "Kurarin. Ahh, that's _so_ cute…Hajime, who are you snatching up?" 

 

“You’re not _wrong_ about this lovely miss Kenyan being my type, although...ah, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t charmed by miss Kaoru-chan over there, ah, she has a heart in her name!” Mizuki is slightly more than charmed, and waves a hand in the air. “Manager-san!”

 

Fuji's eyebrows raise and he leans in closer, whispering into Mizuki's ear: "You _know_ that's _Kaidou_ Kaoru, right?" Some things are just better left untouched.

 

Osamu, in the midst of making sure that Ryouma's 'nyaas' are at least remotely enthusiastic, heaves a sigh and waves back to acknowledge the summons. "Coming, coming! What can I do for you that the lovely Kurarin cannot?" 

 

“I just wanted to know why the darling Kaoru isn’t listed as available, when she...” Mizuki trails off, and his voice turns into a squeak when he sees Osamu’s face. “Y-you! You can’t be!”

 

A slow blink follows that. "Uh. Well, dunno about the last part, but Kaoru-chan is busy being a manager, and that's why she's not available. I'm sure there's another maid that'll suit your tastes just fine…"

 

Fuji decides to just let Mizuki be weird, and beams up at Shiraishi. "You. I want you." 

 

Shiraishi immediately sits down in front of Fuji, a shining smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again! May I offer you coffee, tea, or something else to suit the honored guest’s palate?”

 

Mizuki tries not to stammer over his words. “You’re--you’re Nakano Yuiichi! Can I have your autograph?” His voice is _very_ high.

 

Fuji glances over just in time to see Shitenhouji's coach (and current maid cafe manager) turn an interesting shade of pale. "Um, yeah, sorry, kid, you're _definitely_ mistaken--"

 

And that's the end of him, run off to continue coaching Ryouma through his nyaas, Fuji is sure. "You're being weird, Hajime, stop it," he dismissively says as he turns back to Shiraishi with a smile. "Tea would be lovely. You're so cute that I'm almost jealous. We could play tennis in maid outfits sometime…" 

 

“Ah, you have your own?” Shiraishi is briefly absent for a cup of tea, then slides it over with a gracious nod of his head. “I have no doubt that you’d be very cute. What do you consider to be your charm point?”

 

Mizuki clears his throat several times, then grabs Shiraishi by the sleeve. “That man. Who was he?”

 

Shiraishi’s expression goes from pleased and interested to guarded and wary in the space of a second. “He’s Watanabe Osamu, our coach.”

 

“And before that?”

 

Shiraishi shakes him off with a dirty look. “I don’t want to have to ask you to leave.”

 

“I’ve got to get his autograph,” Mizuki mutters, standing and making his way across the busy cafe to corner the other man. “Excuse me?”

 

Hiding behind Zaizen (who _is_ shorter than him still, damn it) is probably in poor taste, and Osamu winces visibly. It's also poor taste to need to light up a cigarette _right now_ , and so tossing the pack into the trash can is the best preventative method he can think of. "Listen up," he says, exasperated as he turns to Mizuki, "I don't know who you think I am, but you're wrong. And you're kinda being weird about it, so don't make me get Kaoru-chan to toss you out of here, she's got some skills." 

 

Normally, Mizuki would find that dreadfully attractive, but for the moment he’s got something like tunnel vision. “I’m sorry--I don’t mean to be intrusive, it’s only--I’m from Yamagata, too,” he explains in a rush. “You probably don’t remember me, but there’s no chance you’re not Nakamura Yuiichi.”

 

Now is not the day or time for this, but it looks very, very obviously like this kid is just not going to let it go.

 

Osamu swallows hard, rubbing at the back of his neck. Actually, just _hearing_ that name makes his knee throb. That's a new psychosis that he didn't want to know about, joy of joys! "I don't go by that name anymore," he finally, lowly says, "and none of my kids here know about it, so don't start yelling it again. You're pretty good at hiding that Yamagata-ben, huh?" 

 

Mizuki’s breath comes out in a rush, and he nods, wavy hair flapping around his face. It hadn’t been easy, but the lure of going to Tokyo and _not_ sounding like an ‘awful hick,’ as Fuji had put it, had been stronger. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I--I picked up balls for you at a game once.” Mizuki’s throat is dry, and he tries to keep his voice as quiet as possible. “You’re the reason I started playing tennis.”

 

 _I'm a pretty lousy reason to start playing tennis_ , Osamu thinks, but ahh, that's kind of shitty to say, isn't it? If this one was picking up balls for him, then that was… _awhile_ ago, and he was probably way cooler back then. Maybe that had been at least mildly inspirational. 

 

"Really? Heh, sorry that I didn't end up being more impressive, then." Osamu shifts awkwardly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, and then pulls one out again, grabbing a pen off of the counter. "So you wanted my autograph or something? It's not like, worth anything, fair warning."

 

“It is to me,” Mizuki says, fumbling with his bag and pulling out his worn autograph book, complete with a special pen, and flips to the page already marked “NAKANO YUIICHI” at the top, in a child’s careful printing. The opposite page, “RAFAEL NADAL,” is likewise empty. “Anywhere on this page is fine.”

 

If that's not flattering, nothing ever will be. A page next to Rafael Nadal and a special pen and everything, damn. Osamu shakes his head to himself, but signs the page all the same, somehow remembering how he used to sign stuff nearly a decade ago, when it actually mattered. "Well, there you go," he says, handing the pen back over. "I hope you're still playing tennis--what was your name?"

 

“Mizuki Hajime.” Mizuki blows carefully on the page to dry his ink, then shuts the book and holds it close to his chest, taking the pen and tucking it safely away. “Y-yes, I’m the manager at Kyoto Gadai Nishi.” He swallows hard, glad that at least his hands have stopped trembling (even if his feet have started sweating, _weird_ ). “You always played like you could see the whole game in advance. I’ve dedicated my life to that kind of understanding.”

 

"Ahhh, you're really giving me too much credit," Osamu mutters. This is doing some weird up and down things for his ego. "Well--keep it up, then. If you're ever in Osaka again, I'll give you a lesson or something, I'm a much better coach than tennis player, let me tell you." Ehhh, incorrect, but he's good enough.

 

“Really?” That could have come out as _less_ of a squeak, Mizuki thinks in dismay, but he’s too far gone to care. “I’m going to be a coach, too!” _It’s destiny,_ his mind whispers unhelpfully. “Ah, sorry again for bothering you, please have a nice day!”

 

"Y-you, too." Cute kid, too much to handle today. Shit, hopefully he won't end up spilling anything that he doesn't need to. 

 

The look Fuji gives Mizuki when he finally comes back over is thinly veiled exasperation. "Are you done being weird, Hajime?"

 

“Very done, thank you,” Mizuki says dreamily, tucking his precious book securely away at last. “Ah...I still need a maid, don’t I?”

 

Shiraishi’s smile is tight-lipped and stressed, and he shoves the menu back in front of Mizuki. “We have a wide selection. Please refrain from walking around the cafe at will. There are congestion issues.”

 

Fuji pokes at Mizuki's ankle underneath the table with his foot, giving him a look that _demands_ an explanation later, and then offers Shiraishi a sweet smile. "You can give him a moment to decide, if you want. And maybe take a second to get me another tea?" 

 

Shiraishi disappears (without any waste), fleeing back to the tea station. Mizuki drops his voice, and whispers, “That was my childhood hero. Ahh, I heard he got injured and retired, it looks like that was the truth.”

 

Fuji peers around at Osamu skeptically, then shrugs, sliding back into his chair. "Huh. Well, I've never heard of him, but that's interesting, I guess. Maybe that explains why Shitenhouji's suddenly gotten so good over the past couple of years…"

 

“He’s local--I mean, he was, from where I grew up.” Mizuki twirls a strand of hair around his finger, musing, “I haven’t inflicted Yamagata on you yet, have I? It’s just been so much nicer staying down in civilization, but I suppose I’ll have to return home eventually. Shame he’s not back up there, I used to look for him at the courts whenever I went back.”

 

"It sounds awful," Fuji confesses, and nudges at Mizuki's ankle again, hoping to stop the hair-twirling while he still can. "You _could_ just keep coming to my house over breaks…well," he darkly amends, "I guess not, because I believe that's the textbook definition of awkward."

 

“Likely not,” Mizuki agrees, folding his arms. “Unless Yuuta finds somewhere else to be. Ah, perhaps I’ll just confine myself to the dormitories again. Maybe I’ll make it down to Osaka occasionally,” he says wistfully, trying not to stroke his autograph book.

 

"You're making it weird, Hajime," Fuji brightly says. "Don't have crushes on older men, you're not cute enough for that."

 

“For tennis! He said he’d give me a lesson!”

 

“He’s usually quite busy.” Shiraishi slides back into his seat with a shining smile and a cup of tea. “Honored guest, if you don’t choose a maid within two minutes, I’ll need to ask for a general service charge.”

 

“Eh? Oh, fine. Give me this Kenyan, if lovely miss Kaoru isn’t available.”

 

“Kenyan!” Shiraishi calls. “You have a request!”

 

Yuushi’s arm tightens around Kenya’s waist. “She’s still busy, I’m paid up for the next three hours.”

 

"Yuushi, you are definitely pulling me back onto your dick, what the hell," Kenya hisses out in a whisper. 

 

"You don't like tennis lessons," Fuji lightly points out, and accepts his cup of tea graciously. "If you can't have Kenyan, get Echizen, ah, I mean, Ryoko. So cute, and cat ears…unless there's someone you'd recommend, Kurarin?" He could literally spend all day here. 

 

“Ah, Senri-chan and I do couples skits, if you’re interested in that?” Shiraishi advises. “The legs are a strong charm point, but you need to have a good, uh, sense of humor when Senri-chan is in a mood.”

 

“That sounds like too much work,” Mizuki says frankly. “I just want someone to pour me tea and make delightful conversation.”

 

Fuji swats at Mizuki's arm. "Where's your sense of adventure? I thought you liked the moody ones, too. Don't you want to watch cute girls kiss?" Yes, it's _definitely_ about the lesbians.

 

Mizuki sighs. “Bring on the moody lesbians, I suppose,” he says, waving an elegant hand, and Shiraishi stands. 

 

“Senri-chaaan! Request for us as a couple!”

 

Nearby, three girls burst into tears.

 

"Ah," Fuji says, "they certainly are sobbing. I was wondering if that applied to girls in all situations like this, or if it was just my show in particular…" 

 

There is a certain appeal that comes with 'moody lesbians', Fuji supposes, but _more importantly_ \--Shiraishi and Chitose, yes, please. _I'd fuck them both_ , he thinks shamelessly, especially when Chitose strides over, nothing but legs wrapped in perfect black thigh highs and clearly a less than cheerful mood. "This," he says aloud even when he doesn't exactly mean to, "is a nice dichotomy. How many centimeters--"

 

"16. With the heels, 31." Chitose pauses, and actually takes stock of who is at the table. "…Huh. Who would have thought." 

 

Shiraishi slinks sideways as he’s been trained, laying his head on Chitose’s shoulder. “She’s the experienced maid who teaches me all I need to know,” he confides seriously. “I’m the fresh new face just recruited from the countryside.”

 

“It’s practically Hamlet,” Mizuki drawls, entertained despite himself.

 

Current company aside, Shiraishi is, at least, a distraction. "A fresh face that simply can't keep herself in order," Chitose chides, catching Shiraishi's chin in his fingers and sternly lifting it. "Is this really how you're presenting yourself to our guests?"

 

There's a very strange, high pitched noise from somewhere in the back of the room, followed by more sobbing. Fuji slowly pulls out another few bills from his wallet. 

 

"Our sempai literally could not be more gross," Zaizen mutters underneath his breath, glad that _his_ specialty of ignoring the girls gathered around him is still helping him gather money.

 

“Ah!” Shiraishi is convinced that there is no waste in his acting, and he sighs, bringing the back of his hand up to his forehead. “Nee-chan, forgive me. Perhaps you’ll need to show me the error of my ways.”

 

Mizuki takes a slow sip of his tea, rapt. “Fuji, you didn’t tell me we’d have dinner and a _show_.”

 

"This is what you would have ended up missing if you went chasing after _Kenyan_ instead," Fuji snidely remarks underneath his breath.

 

No one has ever _really_ had the heart to tell Shiraishi that his acting, just like his comedy routines, is very much lacking. Chitose certainly doesn't, and…it's cute, besides. That doesn't help when he's trying to keep a straight face, but it _does_ help when he's currently in the foulest mood he's been in in recent history. "Honestly, look at you--" Hand on the thigh, wrapped around, pull him closer, hook a finger into the remaining garter and-- _snap_. Excellent, what a good sound. "You're such a mess, the only thing Nee-chan can do for you now is punish you."

 

This is much more than Fuji bargained for. _Heavy breathing!_

 

“Nee-chan...you’ll be gentle with me, will you not?” Shiraishi is certain that he has this _down_ , right down to the little wriggle he improvises as he sits firmly on Chitose’s lap. “I am, after all, just a simple country maid.”

 

Mizuki is only mildly put off by the girl currently leaning over him from behind, drooling vaguely as he firmly pushes her back. This is _his_ show, dammit.

 

Fuji has to reach over and grab Mizuki's knee for stability when Chitose drags Shiraishi further into his lap, and _keeps_ him there, their lips almost touching. _Kiss already! KISS!!_

 

"If I remember correctly," Chitose breathes, "you don't like it when Nee-chan is gentle."

 

There's a slew of whimpering and whining and that's definitely every horny, desperate girl of the lot. Fuji has to wonder how much he can pay them to all die, but he supposes his own career would suffer because of that. 

 

Mizuki’s leg flails and spasms slightly when Fuji grabs it, but that’s highly acceptable when this intense drama is unfolding right in front of them. Fuji is 100 percent right--he would have missed out on this, which would have been the largest shame of his life. They could _KISS ALREADY!_

 

“N-Nee-chan,” Shiraishi breathes, bringing a hand up to gently trace over Chitose’s braids. He tips his head back, exposing that long pale neck, and whimpers slightly. “You still have so much to teach me about... _adult_ things.”

 

Chitose's mouth is _definitely_ on Shiraishi's neck, that is not faked, alert, not faked, Fuji can tell the difference and these boys _don't know how to stage kiss anything._

 

"That's quite an adult mood, isn't it?!" Osamu announces, breaking the tension with a clap of his hands, and half of the girls whine while the other half squeal and start waving more cash. "Give it time, girls, give it time, there's still the whole day left for more shows--"

 

"Rude," Fuji huffily says, flopping back into his seat. "And yet, still so satisfying…"

 

"Sorry, Kura, I'm just gonna keep cuddling you for awhile," is what Fuji is pretty sure Chitose says with his face still stuffed into the side of Shiraishi's neck, and he's not the only one that hears that, judging by how there's a lot of high-pitched squeaking from the girls behind them. 

 

"The rumors _are_ true!"

 

"Soooo cute!"

 

"Kurariiiiiiiiiin!! You're an angel!" 

 

“Senri-chan is such a wicked influence!”

 

Mizuki fans himself with the menu, eyebrows raised. “I must say, I was not expecting something so...artistic. Truly, the drama of the situation was more than I was anticipating.”

 

Shiraishi, for his part, simply wraps his arms around Chitose. “As long as you want, Nee-chan,” he says softly, so only Chitose can hear him.

 

The door to the club room opens with a determined noise, and a broad silhouette falls across the floor. “Ahn? It looks like someone started the party without my glorious self.”

 

Atobe Keigo strides over to an empty table, and sits, knees apart, leaning back in the chair. “Oh, Manager!”

 

There are certain things Osamu is very capable of tackling. Cute, strange fanboys from Yamagata, for example, even if that was unexpected. 

 

This…nope.

 

 _That is Atobe Keigo and he is for some reason down in Osaka and at my dumb school's maid cafe,_ Osamu registers with a twitching smile, and he promptly grabs Kaidou by the arm, hauling him away from the door. "You're the manager for the moment," he declares, clapping Kaidou on the back. "Good luck!"

 

"…Is that seriously Atobe Keigo?" Fuji flatly says, peering around Mizuki to get a good look. "It _is_."

 

Ryouma, for his part, hears that voice from across the room, and ducks underneath a table. 

 

Kaidou stands, flustered and slightly terrified, in front of Atobe Keigo, holding a menu and shuffling from foot to foot. “Uh...w-welcome to Cafe Shitenhouji,” he mutters, so low it’s almost under his breath. “Menu.”

 

Atobe laughs, then leans forward, takes one of Kaidou’s hands in his own, and kisses the back. “You’re very charming, Neko-chan, but not entirely my type. If there aren’t ears, it isn’t the authentic experience, is it? Grab Echizen from wherever she’s hiding, that’s the one I want.”

 

Shiraishi looks around, confused. “Senri? Why is everyone hiding? His reputation isn’t that bad, should I go over?”

 

"Nope." In fact, Shiraishi is _not_ allowed to stop being aggressively cuddled any time soon, and it's with that thought that Chitose simply picks him up and carries him off to a much more discrete corner of the room, much to the pleasure (and loud squealing) of the crowds. 

 

Zaizen, mercifully, is the one that steps in, which mostly means grabbing Ryouma out from underneath the table and hauling him out. "Don't hassle Kaoru-chan, she's not available," he says with a sigh. "This is the one you want, right?"

 

Ryouma scowls, brushing off his skirt and irritably straightening his stupid cat ears again. "Atobe-sempai," he crossly says, "what are you doing here?" 

 

“You think I would miss the chance to contribute to a worthy cause?” Atobe asks, amused as he settles back in the uncomfortable mass-produced chair. He isn’t shy about the once- or twice-over he gives Ryouma, letting his eyes wander from the patent leather shoes, up the tail, and all the way to the ears atop his blushing face before going down...then up again. “And this does seem like a _very_ worthy cause. How much for a moment of your time, neko-chan?” It _has_ been a while since he’s used that particular endearment, but it still drops off of his tongue as smoothly as ever, especially when it’s _so_ accurate.

 

“I’m expensive.” It seems like a logical thing to say when it’s Atobe Keigo, and when Ryouma _knows_ that money isn’t exactly going to be an issue. He’s doing his part for the tennis club. Right. That’s what he’s going to tell himself. 

 

...It’s not that it’s kind of a relief to see Atobe again, and to know that Atobe still _likes_ seeing him. Ryouma smoothes his skirts once more before slinking his way over. “And it’s extra if you want to touch the ears and tail,” he recites. “We also have coffee and tea and it’s not very good. Are you staying in Osaka?” _You could._

 

Atobe tugs Ryouma down into his lap, and pulls out his wallet from a pocket. Casually, he opens his wallet to a stack of bills, offering them to Ryouma as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind one of the boy’s ears. “I have a week free,” he murmurs, voice softer than it gets for anyone else but Tezuka. “Take what you’re worth and fetch me some subpar tea, then come back and sit on my lap.”

 

Ryouma can tell with just a glance at those bills that Shitenhouji’s tennis club isn’t going to ever have monetary problems again. Yes, he’s definitely doing his part. He slides out of Atobe’s lap and offers him a rather mangled curtsy, which is more than anyone else is going to get. “Be right back, Atobe- _sama_.” 

 

The beeline he makes for Shiraishi (still sort of, well, folded in Chitose’s hold) is immediate. “I’m reserved for the rest of the cafe, I think,” he says, shoving the wad of bills into his hand. “But it’s okay, he paid extra.” 

 

 

Shiraishi blinks down at the money, then makes a confused, tangled bolt for Osamu, jerking urgently at his sleeve. “Samu-chan,” he hisses, “one of our guests just paid for...” Math is hard, but he can _probably_ do this. “...something like three months? At the hourly rate? How do I tell him what a mistake he’s made? The tennis club could get in trouble for stealing!”

 

“Was it Atobe Keigo?” Really, one glance at the money says it all. Hmm. How much fun would that give him at the racetrack--

 

Nope, nope, back up. “It’s fine,” Osamu firmly says, clasping a hand on Shiraishi’s shoulder and trying not to think about the lace underneath his fingertips. “He obviously is just making a very generous donation. Let’s not argue with him about that.” 

 

Ryouma blinks in their general direction for a second before shrugging, grabbing one of the crappy cups of tea and trotting back over to Atobe. “It’s awful,” he says again in warning before dropping himself right down into the other boy’s lap. “But whatever.”

 

“I just wanted you to have something to stir for me,” Atobe admits cheerfully, snaking his hand around Ryouma’s waist. “Have you noticed how delightfully Kansai you’re getting? Rather quaint, I could listen to you for hours.” He leans close, and drops his voice low. “Preferably saying my name over and over. What time are you free to play?”

 

Ryouma’s mouth opens and closes, and he huffs in aggravation, trying to think if he really _is_ getting that Kansai. “I’m not getting Kansai, that’s Shiraishi-sempai, and Kintarou,” he mumbles, but wriggles his way further back into Atobe’s lap all the same. He shoves a hand up to adjust his cat ears. “I dunno how long I have to be here. You could kidnap me.” 

 

Atobe carefully sets a few more bills onto Ryouma’s pinafore, then reaches a hand up to stroke the ears, and behind them. “I have a feeling that I’m going to take you exactly when I want to, Kitty. How much for you to be able to take that dress home with you? I’d rather not have to take you shopping for another before having you in my hotel room.”

 

“Pretty sure you’ve already paid for it already.” Well, he might be headbutting Atobe’s hand already, and staring up at him very pointedly through his bangs. “Is your hotel nice? Does it have air conditioner? Atobe-sempai, there are a lot of places here that don’t have air conditioner and it’s _hot_ here.” 

 

“Don’t whine too much,” Atobe says, giving him a pinch. “Ah, you’re definitely softer back here. You really think I’d stay somewhere that I couldn’t properly take care of you? If you have any complaints, save them for the morning.”

 

Ryouma barely muffles a shriek, and his elbow whacks back into Atobe’s chest. “I’m not softer, _you’re_ softer. Have you been playing tennis? We could play tennis before we go to your hotel, but I’ll win, even if I’m wearing this.” 

 

Atobe laughs, and winds his arm tighter around Ryouma’s waist. “And have you ruin that lovely getup before I’ve properly enjoyed you in it? Not a chance, save that for tomorrow as well. I promise to get it thoroughly sweaty in other ways.” He puts the wallet away, and slides his other hand up one thigh. “Aren’t you going to stir my mediocre tea?”

 

“What’s there to stir?” Ryouma grouses, leaning forward a bit to stir the tea in question rather half-heartedly. “Atobe-sempai, you’re being very smooth and I could hate that more.” He leans back again, his head thunking back against one nice, _comfortable_ shoulder. “I like Osaka, but I’m glad that I get to go to England soon.” 

 

“It’s been a while since someone’s taken proper care of you, hasn’t it?” It’s been a while since Atobe’s gotten to truly _spoil_ someone too, and he nuzzles against Ryouma’s neck, enjoying the game more than he wants to admit. “If I weren’t so keen to spend all night in very creative ways in my hotel room, I’d suggest going out for the evening...but I think we need to spend it in.”

 

“We can go out another night.” Ryouma stretches a little, wriggling more into Atobe’s hold. “And play tennis another night. You could spoil me a lot. And pet me. And tell me that I’m really pretty, I’m kinda used to hearing that now. Oh!” He twists around, shoving his face into Atobe’s neck. Yessss. This is where he wants to be. “You smell good. Is Tezuka-buchou doing okay? Is he going to be in the tournament?” 

 

“The tournament?” Atobe asks, arching an eyebrow. “Ah, the invitational, you heard about that? He’ll be there.” He ruffles Ryouma’s hair a little, and strokes down his neck, thumb brushing over his thigh. “He’s doing very well, and so are we. I just came back to see you, brat.”

 

Ryouma might be purring. Well, if humans _could_ purr as well as his cat, which is, sadly, impossible. “Then I’m definitely gonna go. I got invited and stuff, but I wasn’t sure if it was worth it.” Atobe’s fingertips feel like searing little pinpoints of pleasant heat over his thighs. He licks at his lower lip, and pokes lightly at the back of Atobe’s hand. “If you keep petting me, I’m gonna get mad, because we can’t do stuff _here_.”

 

“I’d like to see someone stop me,” Atobe murmurs, but withdraws his hand slightly to just above the knee. “You’re the one who wants to take it farther right now. Is it really all right for you to skip out on your responsibilities? Won’t your manager...” He looks over, and pauses. He juts out his chin towards Osamu, and asks, “Who’s that to you, Ryouma?”

 

“Our coach.” Ryouma’s lower lip juts out in a pout, but he settles once Atobe’s not petting his thighs, at least. He glances briefly over to Osamu again, who is still periodically attempting to calm down a spastic Shiraishi, a moody Chitose, a too-bouncy Kintarou, and also motivate a very bored Zaizen at the same time. “I’m not skipping out on responsibilities, I’m being good, and you paid them so much money that no one’s gonna care what I do or when I leave.” 

 

“If you can think of some more services to perform, I can always pay more,” Atobe offers, but his eyes are focused on Osamu, and slowly he starts to laugh. “Your coach? Really? _Him_?”

 

“You’re being weird, Atobe-sempai,” Ryouma complains, twisting around his lap to glower at him. “Yeah, he’s our coach, and I guess he’s pretty good. Why do you care?”

 

“No reason.” Atobe winks in Osamu’s general direction, pleased that the tenseness of his shoulders means that he’s been noticed. “Does that mean you’re all out of services to perform for me? The evening hasn’t even begun.”

 

“Atobe-sempai, you’re also being gross. I’m not gonna do any of that stuff right here.” 

 

“Brat, I haven’t even begun to be disgusting.” Atobe leans over as if to whisper something, and nibbles slightly on Ryouma’s earlobe. “As a maid, you should be prepared to please your master.”

 

Oh. That. Ah. Ryouma promptly shoves his skirts down more firmly. “Atobe-sempai,” he mutters underneath his breath, “do you know how awkward it is to get hard when I’m wearing a skirt like this?” 

 

It’s still nice to know that as lovely as Ryouma looks, he’s still so preciously _eager_ , no matter how he pretends not to be. “I’m sure you’ll manage. It’s worth it, in case you’re wondering,” he says casually, brushing hair behind Ryouma’s ear again. “You look stunning. Quite distracting, I might add.”

 

Ryouma twists his head around to snap at Atobe’s hand, catching one finger between his teeth as he glares. “ _You’re_ distracting. I’m gonna gnaw on you.” 

 

“What am I distracting you from? Serving mediocre coffee to strangers?” Atobe snorts and tugs Ryouma closer, shoving that finger into his mouth. “Be sweet, kitty.”

 

Keeping a hand on his skirts is just a good idea now. Ryouma huffs through his nose, and licks at the underside of Atobe’s finger before he lets his head tilt back. “Not good at being sweet,” he mumbles. “You should know that by now.” 

 

“You’re plenty sweet.” Atobe traces that fingertip over Ryouma’s bottom lip, letting his other hand dip back to stroke down the long tail. “With someone who knows how to handle you properly. Where is that tail attached, anyway? Ah, I need to pay more for this, don’t I?”

 

“Ah...yeah.” Keeping a hand on his skirts isn’t going to like, make it any easier not to be aroused. Ryouma purses his lips and yanks his tail back. “Atobe-sempai. You either need to pay more and carry me out of here, or stop touching me _inappropriately.”_

 

Atobe sighs. “You’re always spoiling my fun, brat. Go get your manager, I’ll buy out your contract. There is a certain _protocol_ to these things.”

 

“I don’t think I have a contract, though. You could just pick me up and carry me out of here and hand our coach more money on the way out.” 

 

“You’re _really_ ruining the way I’m trying to commodify you,” Atobe informs him dryly, but dutifully scoops him nonetheless, juggling slightly to get Ryouma sitting in the crook of one of his arms. “You’ve definitely gained weight,” he grunts, and heads for the exit. “Ah, manager,” he calls to the coach, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “I have some _business_ with you.”

 

“You’ve just gotten weak,” Ryouma hisses into his ear. “And squishy. You’re squishy!” 

 

That’s an odd chill that rakes down Osamu’s spine for sure. Briefly, he grinds his teeth, but setting his face into a smile is the smartest thing that he can do right now. Why is today the day that he’s recognized in probably 15 different awful ways? “More business? From our most _prestigious_ customer to date?”

 

“ _Squishiest_ ,” is Ryouma’s too-loud whisper. 

 

Osamu’s just gonna ignore that. “What can I help you with?” 

 

There might be a smirk that speaks _very_ plainly of all of the knowledge Atobe is just dying to mention--but won’t. That wouldn’t be courteous, not when the man has such a service to render. “I hear you’re the manager of this fine establishment? Truly a man who wears many...hats.” He pulls out his wallet with one hand, thumbing out a stack of bills (of some denomination--there are certainly some zeroes) and handing them over before putting it away. “For the rest of the brat’s time, though you should really be paying me for taking him off of your hands.”

 

“I’m worth more than that,” Ryouma bluntly says, taking off his cat ears to put them on Atobe’s head instead. “You’re getting a discount, Atobe-sempai.” 

 

“Ah...right.” The horror that is meeting Atobe Keigo here, of all places, at least will soon pass. That’s what Osamu can thank Echizen Ryouma for later, and mostly in the form of not giving him too many laps. He pockets the cash with a smile, and moves to open the door. “By all means, take him off our hands, and, uh, have fun. Keep the maid outfit, too, Ryoko, no one needs that back.” _I am running a prostitution ring and Echizen is 13._

 

Atobe is very certain that he deserves even more of a discount for not mentioning anything. One arched eyebrow is enough of an indication, and he _does_ enjoy that. “Ryoko, eh? Don’t worry, Manager-san. I’ll take _very_ good care of her. See you soon.” 

 

All right, he couldn’t resist. He turns, tossing Ryouma over his shoulder when his arm starts to ache, and strides out the door with his prize. “The discount is for your mouth, brat. No one needs to hear your commentary.”

 

“You’ve gotten fat,” Ryouma says without batting an eye, dangling his arms down over Atobe’s back to reach for his ass and pinch it. “What’s up with your boner for that coach? I’m cuter.” 

 

Atobe swats Ryouma’s ass, deftly managing a good connection despite the skirts. He _might_ have some practice in that regard. “It’s not a boner, despite your crude euphemisms. I’ve seen the goods, and there’s nothing there I’m after. I’d rather watch you squirm on my lap tonight.”

 

Ryouma muffles a squawk, and rakes his nails up Atobe’s back in revenge. It’s not as effective as he’d _like_ , but it’ll do for now. “What do you mean, you’ve seen the goods?” he complains. “Atobe-sempai, tell me that story later after we’ve had fun at your hotel. Do we have to take the train? I’ll get yelled at for being in cosplay.” 

 

Atobe pauses, and tilts his head slightly. “I’d be startled that you think anyone would think you’re in cosplay when you’re clearly a maid,” he drawls, “except that I’m far too concerned that you think I would take a train _anywhere_. My driver should be arriving right...”

 

The second his feet hit the curb, a limousine pulls up, with a man in a tuxedo hurrying over to open the door. “A little late,” Atobe says mildly, and tosses Ryouma into the plush backseat. “Not a long ride, brat. Try to keep me entertained nonetheless.”

 

Ryouma flops onto the seat, not bothering to fix his skirts when he sprawls out there quite comfortably. “I was hoping Tezuka-buchou had taught you how to be a _peasant_ a bit more,” he snidely tosses back. “I could’ve been groped on the train by you.” 

 

“You can get groped in a limo instead,” Atobe offers, and settles down on the seat with his legs apart, laying a hand on his own inner thigh, close to indecent but not quite there. “Now. Come sit on my lap like you wanted to do back in that cafe.”

 

It’s not like he has a reason to say ‘no’ now, and so Ryouma twists around to crawl over and throw a leg over Atobe’s hips. Sitting like this is actually all kinds of unfair, because skirts and spread legs and squirming until he’s _really_ close...yeah. That’s what he’s into, and _that’s_ why he couldn’t do a lot of it back in that stupid cafe. 

 

 _Right about now, Kintarou is noticing that I’m gone_ , Ryouma wryly thinks, then shrugs it off, and flops his arms over Atobe’s shoulders when he nuzzles his face into Atobe’s neck. “I can get groped in a limo instead,” he agrees. 

 

“Tell me,” Atobe breathes, pulse quickening in a way he’d _really_ thought he was past with this brat by now, “how much did you want to do this the second you saw me?” He scrapes his teeth softly over a pulse point in Ryouma’s neck, shifting so that Ryouma can feel him pressing up, starting to swell in his pants as he nuzzles. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this to you for longer than I can say.”

 

Ryouma’s breath catches as he sets his knees more firmly into the seat, making it much, much easier to arch forward and down. Hiking up his skirts half-way with one hand makes it even better, because then he can really feel how hard Atobe is against him, and that just makes his mouth go dry. “Really a lot,” he mumbles, mouth fastening to the lobe of one of Atobe’s ear. “Atobe-sempai...I missed you a _lot._ ” 

 

“I missed you too, brat.” The words come out a bit more fondly than Atobe had intended, but they’ve been a _long_ few months. Surely he can be forgiven for the way he tilts his head, catching Ryouma’s lips in a kiss that’s soft and light at first, then deep and sure as his hands slide down the boy’s back to squeeze his ass. _Forgive me, Kunimitsu, for going after the only one that bothers you, but I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon._

 

The satisfied exhale of Ryouma’s groan is muffled against Atobe’s mouth, just like it _should_ be. He lurches forward, inhaling sharply through his nose when his hand snakes down between them and grabs at the hard line of Atobe’s cock through his slacks. It’s already hot and heavy when he’s just touching it like _that_ , and that makes him whimper against Atobe’s mouth, his teeth catching at the other boy’s lower lip when he can feel the way Atobe’s fingers dig into his flesh. “Atobe-sempai,” he rasps, pulling back only enough to _consider_ breathing, but that doesn’t really happen, “you’re still a good kisser.”

 

 

Atobe’s hands clench tighter, squeezing and caressing, sliding up under the skirts as he breathes out heavily through his nose. He shifts, pressing his hips up against Ryouma’s hand, eyes dark and intent. “And you,” he murmurs, sliding one hand into Ryouma’s panties, letting his thumb ghost over that tight hole, “are going to find out what it feels like when a man has you in a limo for his pleasure. The things I’m going to _do_ to you...”

 

Ryouma hisses out a sharp breath and immediately wriggles back, pressing back against just the scant touch of Atobe’s thumb. “You better put it in me,” he immediately demands, his own hand _immediately_ busier with unfastening and unzipping Atobe’s pants. Clothing is _not_ going to get in the way of that really, _really_ nice dick. “You’ve got lube, right? Hurry up and get it.”

 

“Cheeky,” Atobe warns, and presses a small button, revealing a compartment fully stocked with all the necessities. “Condom?” It’s a definite question between them, and a mental calculation on both parts. _Do you still trust me to offer not to, knowing that I’d say something if there were a danger? Have you been with anyone you don’t trust? A lot of time has passed, brat._

 

“Don’t wanna.” Ryouma nuzzles his face into the side of Atobe’s neck, nipping lightly. His fingers come away sticky from Atobe’s cock, and he carelessly leans over to grab for the first lube bottle he sees. “Really hate the way they feel,” he admits, “and it’s not like I’ve been doing it with anyone other than Kintarou. _You_ haven’t been here.” 

 

“Hmm, no, I’ve actually been disgustingly faithful,” Atobe admits, and grabs the lube, slicking himself up as soon as he’s got his cock entirely out. One hand is enough to pull Ryouma’s panties down, and his breath catches, eyes alight as he rubs the head of his cock over that tight hole. “Good to know you’ve been keeping in practice, though. You’ll need it.” With that, he grabs Ryouma by the hip, dragging him down as his hips roll up.

 

It always _sucks_ for those first couple of inches. It takes Ryouma’s breath away, makes him cling and claw at Atobe’s shoulders, and his chest heaves as he’s pulled down every inch until he can _feel_ his own trembling thighs slap down against Atobe’s. 

 

 _Oh, thank God._ Actually having a big cock all the way _in him_ , stretching him that wide and leaving him that perfectly, achingly full feels like relief more than any amount of hurt, and Ryouma exhales another whimper, grinding down a little to feel that particular, perfect way that Atobe fills him up. The rustle of lace and cheap satin combined with the creak of those leather seats--that does wonders, too, and Ryouma feels his cock dripping and leaking when he rubs forward against Atobe’s stomach. “S-shut up, I’m good at this,” he breathes, his eyes fluttering. “I bet _you’re_ the one that’s out of practice.” 

 

Atobe snorts, but it comes out breathy and eager like he always somehow is with Ryouma, and he digs his hands into the boy’s hips, grinding up against him until there’s not another fraction of an inch he could shove inside. “Me, out of practice?” That’s a laugh, and he lurches up, biting and sucking at Ryouma’s neck as he lifts, then grabs, working his cock as far inside Ryouma as it’ll go. There’s something about this particular boy, the way he grabs and squirms, the way his voice is breathless and squeaky when he’s full of cock, that goes directly south to drive Atobe insane. 

 

“Can you handle it?” he teases, rolling his hips up, giving Ryouma that blessed fullness he knows the boy craves. “How badly have you needed this, pretty thing?”

 

Ryouma’s voice breaks on a whine before he can reply, and he’s pretty sure that his vision goes white for a moment. Atobe is so far inside of him that he gulps, swallowing hard and swearing that he can _taste it_ , and that goes straight to his own cock, leaving his chest heaving and his nails clawing their way down Atobe’s arms. 

 

“R-really badly, really, _really_ \--” His mouth falls open when Atobe’s in as far as he can be again, leaving Ryouma’s muscles to bunch and tremble and _squeeze_ around that thick cock. He can’t really relax, doesn’t really want to, because that makes it somehow better when he sets his wobbly knees down more firmly and grinds and bounces down, hearing the slap of their hips and the way he aches from the inside out. “Atobe-sempaiiii...fuck me, fuck me _harder_.” 

 

There’s just something about how desperate Ryouma is for it that makes Atobe want to force _screams_ out of that pale throat, no matter how bad a man that makes him. The way Ryouma is bouncing is _perfect_ , and he moves his hips with it, slamming up every time Ryouma lands, the slap of their hips everything he’s _craved_. 

 

“Tonight,” he promises, hands digging into Ryouma’s hips as he forces him to take more, more, _more_ , “I’m going to have you until you can’t take any more, Kitty. We’ll see what kind of noises you make--god, _take it_ \--” He’s switched into English at some point, and has no idea when.

 

It probably makes him a gross, horrible person and boyfriend and everything else to have craved something _just like this_ so much, but--

 

It’s _Atobe_. How is he supposed to not want it?

 

Ryouma’s breath catches up in his throat, his legs wobbling until he just _can’t_ lift himself anymore, and it’s just Atobe’s hands and the shove of Atobe’s hips that keeps him moving. His mouth is on Atobe’s neck, his throat, mostly with wet, messy kisses and half-hearted attempts to muffle all of the sounds that he’s making when Atobe’s cock just stuffs him completely full. 

 

Something about the next, deep thrust of Atobe’s hips catches him just right, and he gasps and whimpers and _comes_ , arching forward to cling and grab at Atobe when he spills in long, twitching spasms, all over his skirts and Atobe’s shirt. 

 

“Filthy brat,” Atobe moans, fingers curling in Ryouma’s skirts as he thrusts up hard. The temptation to keep thrusting until he’s _done_ is overwhelming. He starts to pull himself back, to make it last, but no--they both want this.

 

His teeth sink into Ryouma’s neck, and he groans when he snaps in deep, filling Ryouma so full he can almost see the boy whimpering and squirming from it all. “Tell me it’s too much,” he breathes, panting harshly against one ear, still pressed in as deeply as he can be, feeling every pulse of his heartbeat deep inside Ryouma. “Tell me you can’t take anymore.” 

 

There’s the strange, spurious urge to let another name fall from his lips, to call him _pet_ , _darling_ , _beloved_ , but that’s not who they are to each other, no matter how he might dabble in that idea occasionally.

 

Ryouma’s voice catches in his throat, lost in the midst of long, heaving breaths that he keeps having to _work_ for. It _is_ too much. He can feel the sticky drip down his thighs, not just of the mess he’s made, but because Atobe _always_ comes a lot and he’s already so full that there’s just nowhere else for it to go. 

 

“G...gross, Atobe-sempai,” he groans, sagging down, whimpering when that just makes that still half-hard cock push up inside of him again. He grabs at one of Atobe’s hands, pulling it between them, pressing it against his stomach. “You can  feel how much is in there, right? You know--” He gulps, because just thinking about it makes him shiver, never mind _feeling it_. “You _know_ it’s too much.”

 

Atobe’s breath catches more, not helped by the way Ryouma’s squeezing, milking every last drop out of him. He traces his hand over Ryouma’s belly, sure he won’t be able to feel anything--he never has with Tezuka--and sucks in a breath when there is a tiny bulge, he swears there is. “Jesus Christ,” he swears under his breath, feeling himself start to stiffen again as the limo comes to a stop.

 

He looks down at himself, and blinks, offended at the new stain. He reaches to the side, picking up a suit jacket, and shrugs it on, buttoning it in front as he smoothes Ryouma’s skirts down. “Come in on my arm and they won’t look too closely,” he offers, chucking the boy under the chin. “If you make a big deal of it, they’ll remember you...and you _do_ look thoroughly ravished.”

 

Ryouma glowers at him, snapping at Atobe’s hand even as he sort of...wobble-rolls away. “At least, maybe, they’ll just think I’m some stupid girl,” he groans, gingerly tugging his panties up and trying not to think about that too much. “If you were a real gentleman, you’d carry me or something.” 

 

“You want to be carried entirely too much to be cute,” Atobe says, exiting the limo when the driver holds the door open for them, keeping a firm arm around Ryouma’s waist. “You’re meant to be _on_ my arms, not _in_ my arms like some sort of child.”

 

It is, thankfully, a blissfully brief trip up in the elevator. “The whole top floor is ours,” he says idly, tossing his jacket onto a leather love seat. “Make yourself at home for as long as you feel like being entertaining.”

 

Even if he’s still sort of wobbly-legged, Ryouma makes it to the bed quite easily, flopping down onto it face-first and resigning to never get up from it again. It feels like a cloud, and he does approve of that. “I’m always entertaining, so I just live here now.” 

 

“That’s probably for the best. Ah, I _liked_ this shirt.” Atobe shrugs, and strips off his shirt, tossing it over the jacket. “Is this an aesthetic you particularly want to preserve? I can always get out another suit if you want to be at the mercy of a ruthless businessman.” Otherwise, as usual, he’ll probably be gloriously nude.

 

“Nah. It’s better if you’re naked. Do I have to keep this dress on? It’s sticky,” Ryouma complains, rolling slowly onto his back. “I’ll keep the cat ears on, if you want. You could call me Kitty more.” 

 

“Cat ears, yes.” Atobe flips Ryouma unceremoniously over, and undoes the ties up the back in record time. “But what to do about the tail? Ah, it’s a shame it isn’t attached anywhere...interesting.” So sue him, it’s definitely something he likes thinking about. “Tell me, Kitty...what’s the most times you’ve come in a single night?”

 

Ryouma huffs into a pillow, kicking one leg slowly up and down. “Like...four times? Five? I dunno.” 

 

Atobe yanks the dress off, tossing it into a corner with something approaching glee. “Care to beat your record? I guarantee I could pull it off.” It sounds nice, to leave Ryouma shaking, twitching, sweating, and sobbing his name. 

 

“Yeah, okay.” Ryouma rolls over again, kicking off those stupid, clingy, and now very sticky panties with a sigh of satisfaction. “You better make it good, though.” 

 

“Bratty Kitty. When haven’t I?” Atobe grabs one ankle, hoisting it into the air as he presses kisses up the inside of one smooth leg. “Does that strange boy satisfy you the way I do, little prince? Or have you been thinking of me while he’s inside you?” Crossing boundaries is kind of his thing, after all.

 

Ryouma rolls his eyes, kicking at Atobe’s shoulder half-heartedly. “I like Kintarou a lot, so you be nice to him.” It’s hard to be too annoyed when Atobe’s mouth is on his skin, though, and he stretches out, wriggling his toes. “He’s the one that made me come like, five times in a row, too, so you’ve got something to live up to.”

 

That’s mildly off-putting, thinking of that strange creature marring up what Atobe likes thinking of as _his_. Well, he’ll just have to do a lot more marking in that case. A hard sucking bite to the inside of one pale thigh is a good start, and Atobe swipes his tongue over salty-sticky skin. “I’ll just make sure the only name you remember how to scream is mine,” he murmurs, kissing the rest of the way up to where leg meets body.

 

A sharp hiss of breath escapes between Ryouma’s teeth, and his fingers slowly knead into the sheets when he glances down, watching that skin redden on his thigh. That’s definitely going to be a bruise later, and he likes the idea of that. “Dunno ‘bout that,” he breathes, sliding his hand down through Atobe’s hair. “You’re gonna have to try pretty hard, Atobe-sempai.” 

 

“Oh?” Atobe drags his tongue over the head of Ryouma’s cock, tasting everything left over from their play and wanting to force more out of him. “Need a drink first?” he asks casually, as if every breath isn’t ghosting over that hardening cock. “You need to keep hydrated if I’m going to be playing with you all night.”

 

Ryouma shivers hard, his fingers twisting up into Atobe’s hair to lightly pull. It’s not _often_ that someone has their mouth on his cock, but this...this is good. He remembers, very clearly, the last time Atobe’s mouth had been there, and that had only ended well. “If you stop doing that to get me something to drink,” he very seriously says, “I’m gonna be really mad.” 

 

“Well. We _can’t_ have that.”

 

It suits Atobe not to stop anyway. Every long drag of his tongue reminds him of how _rarely_ he gets to do this, since Tezuka’s stance on blowjobs is “giving and never receiving, thank you very much.” That’s fine, but god, he loves the control that using his mouth brings. 

 

He slides his hands up, fingertips rubbing hard over the smooth skin of Ryouma’s thighs to his belly, delving down with his mouth as he pushes down with his hands. No choking, no gagging are allowed. It’s elegance, craft, and desire pure and simple that will drive his intended target insane, and Atobe has all of those in spades.

 

Be held down is just another excuse to squirm, Ryouma’s pretty sure, which is what he does with his toes curling and his fingers slowly kneading into Atobe’s scalp. “Not like...too fast, okay?” he mumbles, flopping his head down onto a pillow. “Still really sensitive.”

 

Which isn’t a bad thing, of course. Atobe’s tongue makes him whine, and his nails scrape down the back of his neck. His cock already twitches and aches, and that’s _rude_ , honestly, when he’s trying not to come immediately. 

 

Atobe pulls off, letting the head slip out of his mouth with a soft wet _pop_ as he admires the way it looks. “I’ll suck you off the way I want to,” he says, amused, and swipes just the tip of his tongue over the head, tasting clear fluid and not hating it as much as he probably should.

 

“You’ve grown, you know,” he breathes, trailing his lips down the shaft, then his tongue back up. “Just a bit. Not so much that I can’t take care of you properly.”

 

Ryouma’s nails flex in, and he huffs, giving up as his eyes slide shut. “I got taller, too,” he points out, a few muscles in his thighs twitching when Atobe doesn’t _immediately_ put his cock back into his mouth. “Maybe it’s the heat. It’s cooking me to perfection.” 

 

Atobe sticks to slow licks, teasing flicks of his tongue, gentle brushes of his lips for several minutes, making sure there’s no part of Ryouma’s cock that feels neglected even if he’s definitely not getting the stimulation he really needs. Then all at once, he dives down, letting Ryouma feel the careful, gentle scrape of his teeth on the way up, kissing it immediately after. _You are perfect, brat._

 

Out loud, he just murmurs, “You think you can outdo me someday? You have a lot of growing to do. And watch the nails.”

 

“S...sssoorry--” That feels _good_ , and Ryouma’s not really sure that he’s entirely in control of what his hands are doing. Mostly, he knows that he’s ready to have that happen again, and he whimpers, wriggling underneath Atobe’s hands as his cock twitches with every lick and kiss. Whenever he’s _not_ in Atobe’s mouth, he’s dripping over his stomach, and it definitely aches in every single way. “Ahhh...fuck--” Those are some wires crossing in his brain, and Ryouma doesn’t care anymore. “K... _Keigo_ \--”

 

“Are you ready?” The words are more gentle than he’s been lately, and Atobe caresses those smooth thighs, sucking hard on the head for a moment, then going back to gentle, urgent licks. “Ask me. I’ll let you finish.”

 

One hand steals down, and two fingers slide into Ryouma’s sore, dripping hole, knowing how much he must ache and wanting that edge of pain when Atobe swallows his cock.

 

It’s a good thing Atobe is so strong, because Ryouma nearly arches off the bed--or _tries_. It’s not _enough_ , he’s not stuffed full of Atobe’s cock, but the idea of it is enough to leave him panting and clutching at the bedsheets, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to be clawing down Atobe’s neck and shoulders. “A-ah--y-yeah, please, I n...need to, I need it--”

 

“Go on, then. And say my name again.” The words come out husky, more English-accented than usual, and Atobe swallows him to the root, curling up with his fingers to milk the boy for all he’s worth, rubbing inside his hole with pinpoint accuracy, so strong almost to be painful--which is, ever and always, what Ryouma craves from him. Being spoiled, being broken--if that’s what Ryouma needs from him, that’s what he’s going to get.

 

There’s a dim thought in the back of Ryouma’s mind about these walls hopefully being sound-proofed, but he can’t find himself to care _too_ much.

 

He just doesn’t want a single thing to interrupt him from how good this feels. 

 

Except--it _hurts_ , almost, more than it feels good. He can’t catch his breath, his cock throbs against Atobe’s tongue, and those fingers inside of him make him jerk and squirm and sob. It doesn’t take much more than another slide of Atobe’s tongue, a little, tiny hint of those teeth before he’s lost, spilling hard and desperate, and gasping out what is probably a lot of moaning, breathless _Keigo Keigo Keigo_. 

 

Atobe would probably laugh and deny it if anyone hinted that the great Atobe Keigo _swallows_. He does, though, and greedily, with relish, cleaning Ryouma’s cock with his tongue for every drop, keeping up the pressure inside of him if not necessarily the motions through the spasms of his orgasm. How could he not, when the boy sounds, tastes, feels so sweet?

 

Once the last spasm makes its way through Ryouma’s body, he withdraws his fingers, tugging the boy close for a firm cuddle. He’s hard, of _course_ he’s hard, but that needs to wait. “Every part of you is delicious,” he murmurs into Ryouma’s hair, tossing the cat ears to the side and nuzzling behind his ear. His hands are gentle but strong, running easy up and down Ryouma’s arms and sides, holding him close. “Shh, I’ve got you, Ryouma.” 

 

Ryouma hiccups, inhaling and exhaling hard, and shoves his face immediately into Atobe’s neck, breathing in deeper the second he actually has skin to nestle into and grab at. His arms are tight around Atobe’s waist, and his nails might be digging into his back, desperate and clingy when he shivers and shudders. 

 

“You’re--” Hiccups again, combined with the tears streaming down his face, don’t make talking easy. He sniffles and rubs his nose on Atobe’s shoulder. “You’re _good_ at that,” he eventually manages. At some point, speaking in English is something that he’s started doing, and that’s a-okay. Who else is he going to do that with here, anyway? 

 

“Of course I am.” That’s a given, obviously, but it _is_ nice to hear. It’s easy enough to grab a soft edge of a bedspread, and use it to wipe Ryouma’s eyes and nose, then go back to petting his hair and back. “You’re so beautiful when you come apart like that, my--”

 

Again, Atobe bites his tongue. Whatever he might feel the urge to call Ryouma, the boy _isn’t_ that, isn’t his. Lover, maybe, but not love. It’s easy to remember and easier to tolerate, but his mouth always wants to say the foolish words. “Good boy,” he finishes instead, with a soft kiss to the tip of Ryouma’s ear.

Ryouma sniffles again, wriggles his way closer, and folds himself up into a neat little ball against Atobe's chest. "You can call me stuff," he mumbles, mouthing a kiss to the side of Atobe's neck. "It's not like we're dating or anything and I just like it when you say stuff. Your accent is good." 

 

Atobe runs a hand through Ryouma’s hair, feeling his first twinge of guilt for what they share. It’s not often that he questions himself--but with Ryouma, just sometimes, he questions his own control. The boy is so fierce, so passionate, that it’s easy to get swept into his pace at just about anything. “You don’t mind?” he asks, rubbing slow circles on Ryouma’s back. “If I call you darling, or love? It’s only that it feels natural, you know who owns my heart.”

 

"I know." Ryouma blinks the last, weird few tears out of his eyes as he peers up at Atobe through his bangs. "It's not like I'm good at all that romance stuff, anyway," he admits. "But you can still call me things like that, and it's okay. I know that it's not _like_ that."

 

That’s a weight off, and Atobe sighs, cuddling Ryouma a little more intently. “Too smart for that, aren’t you?” he asks, and gives him a little squeeze. “Very well. Next time I feel the urge, I’ll indulge. Drinks? I could use a stretch break.”

 

"I could drink every water." Even as he says that, he's not exactly unfastening himself from Atobe any time soon. "You're _really_ good to cuddle," Ryouma mutters, his brow furrowing, and his hands slowly snake down to knead into Atobe's ass, just a _little_. "Squishy in good places…"

 

Atobe gives him a warning little pinch--not too firm, more amused than anything. “I can still run _your_ arse around a tennis court, brat.” Somehow, he manages to mostly extricate himself from the tangle on the bed, tugging Ryouma along with him as he heads into what passes for a kitchen. “There is, of course, everything you could want,” he offers, pouring himself one glass of water and another of non-alcoholic champagne. “Did they feed you at that absurd cafe, or just rent you out?”

 

"Just rent me out," Ryouma supplies, making a beeline for the water in spite of how he wobbles, and half the pitcher is gone in an instant. "Dunno about Shitenhouji sometimes. It's a good team and stuff, but they're weird and _really_ touchy and even if the coach is good--oh, yeah. You were going to tell me stuff about him."

 

Atobe barks out a laugh, holding his champagne flute delicately between three fingertips as he looks for something appropriate food-wise. “Ahh, yes. Your coach. I know him.” He shrugs, not sure exactly how much is fit to reveal. “If you like, I’ll keep my mouth shut, but I _do_ find it amusing.”

 

"It's not like I'm gonna tell anyone." Except his cat. _Definitely_ his cat. After downing another glass of water, Ryouma joins the art of rummaging, and it mostly leads him to a whole lot of disappointing finds and an intense desire for New York pizza. _Soon_ , he vows. "How do _you_ know him?" 

 

“We frequent many of the same parties.” Atobe stares into the refrigerator, mildly put out, and sends off an annoyed text message from a nearby phone.

 

**To: Butler 4**

**Subject: Food**

**Find me something good and bring it here now.**

 

“I usually attend as a guest. Of honor, of course. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s been...ah, what’s a polite term for it...arm candy, I suppose.”

 

"Arm candy? What, does he have a rich girlfriend or something?" Ryouma disinterestedly asks, hauling himself away from the kitchen after finding at least an unsatisfying granola bar, and slowly slides back into bed, gnawing on it.

 

Atobe slides back into bed without spilling a drop, letting the bubbles drift up into his nose. “Hmm. No. He usually shows up with my coach.” That coach’s intimidating presence has a lot more to do with why Atobe hadn’t said anything than any desire to be a kind person had.

 

"…Huh?" Ryouma's eyes narrow, and the granola bar dangles out of his mouth as he stares at Atobe, making sure he's piecing this together properly. "Wait. Seriously? They're dating? But I thought…hm." 

 

“I don’t know if that’s the right word,” Atobe allows, thinking back to some of the things he’s seen, “but they’re intimate.” He pauses, then adds, “In case you were wondering. Implications are one thing, but they’re rather indiscreet at some of these parties.” Which is a nice way of saying he’s walked in on a rather obvious moment in a broom closet, bathroom, or side room more than once, likely orchestrated by his coach in some strange desire to show off. Many things are.

 

"Gross," Ryouma logically concludes, and finishes off his granola bar in another bite. "Because he's _definitely_ dating Shiraishi-sempai and they're kind of…ugh, what's the word. _Gooey_ about it." There's no better way to describe it.

 

Atobe raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” That...changes things, at least in as far as he’s seen. He doesn’t bother asking whether Ryouma is sure. He always is, about gossip. “Are they being careful? He could be in a _lot_ of trouble for that--and frankly, I don’t know how much he’s already in, just in general.”

 

"Mm, they're really careful. The only reason I know is because I'm not an idiot, and everyone else is. Except Chitose-sempai but he's really creepy about that and I think he stalks Shiraishi-sempai at night." Ryouma flops over onto his stomach. "People are dumb and make things really complicated for no reason." 

 

“You’re not wrong about that.” Atobe leans back in the bed, tracing patterns on Ryouma’s back with his fingers as he finishes his champagne, setting the flute aside. “Sex is about power with a lot of them. I don’t want you to get mixed up with anyone who thinks that way.” Pitiful, really, how much he cares about this boy.

 

Immediately, Ryouma's eyes roll. "As if. Kintarou's my boyfriend and he's probably the best ever, so that's never gonna happen. Also, I only have sex with hot guys. Your old coach isn't hot enough, gross."

 

“At least I can count on that strange creature to protect you, if nothing else,” Atobe sighs. “You do need that type, you know. You’re much too attractive for your own good. How do you function in Manhattan?”

 

Butler #4 opens a door quietly, setting a tray down without making a sound, and leaving again. Atobe opens one of the cloche shells, and blinks. “Lovely. Grilled whitefish and a foie gras rillette, are you hungry?”

 

"No one bothers me in Manhattan," Ryouma says. "Maybe it's because I'm good at tennis. Feed me, I definitely want fish. I have had so much takoyaki over the past few months that I want to die."

 

Atobe wastes no time in spearing a delicate filet, forking bites into Ryouma’s mouth. “Perfect little Kitty,” he says, pleased as he takes a bite for himself. “You don’t need so much fried food, it’s awful for your skin. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

 

"Shut up!" It _might_ be reflex that Ryouma lifts a hand up to his own jawline, checking for _new_ bumps, _gross_. "I want to go back to New York," he says while mournfully chewing. "I mean, I'd eat pizza for like a week, but then I'd eat better than that…"

 

“We can go tomorrow,” Atobe offers. “I told you, I have plans for you and every surface in the penthouse tonight, but my tomorrow is wide open. It only takes seven hours to get there in my plane, four if we take the jet.”

 

"…Can we go _after_ the tournament?" Ryouma presses, reaching over to steal another piece of fish with his bare fingers. "I think I'll get in trouble if I do that much international travel before some stupid tournament. It's okay if we hang out a lot together before that, though. I think Karupin would want to see you, too." 

 

Atobe sighs. “I can’t believe I miss that evil cat,” he grumbles. “Peach misses you, too.” His own cat is far more evil, and far more inbred.

 

"They could have babies. Then we'd be grandparents." 

 

Atobe narrows his eyes, and tugs up a corner of the bedspread, tunnelling underneath. “There would be _kittens_.”

 

"That's the idea." Ryouma slowly slinks underneath the blankets after him, and nuzzles his face into the crook of Atobe's shoulder. "We could name them after famous tennis players."

 

“That’s a little crass and on-the-nose, don’t you think?” Atobe asks, not entirely convinced that he doesn’t want to be crass and on-the-nose just for a day or two. “They would be _fluffy_ , Ryouma.”

 

"Really fluffy. And cute. And I bet they'd have squished in faces." Ryouma pauses, and thinks for a moment before asking, hesitantly, "Is it _okay_ if I call you Keigo? I mean, when we're alone and stuff. I heard Tezuka-buchou do it once, but I don't want to make it weird."

 

That _is_ a question, for certain. Atobe pauses to think, wanting to give a real answer, and slowly nods. The brat is letting him drop endearments, after all. “You and Kunimitsu will be the only ones who call me that,” he says, waving his fingers. “Enjoy the privilege. As long as you don’t let your guard down,” he says, ending with a twinkle in his eye.

 

The color that lights up Ryouma's face says it all about that particular phrase, probably. "W-whatever, I probably won't even call you that now, _you're_ the one making it weird."

 

A _stutter_. A stutter and a _blush_ , no less, and Atobe’s eyes sharpen as he shoves Ryouma down on his back, pinning him to the bed. It only takes a particularly piercing look with his Insight (or really, just common sense) to see something he’s suspected for a while. “Ah. So _that’s_ how it is with him, ahn?”

 

"Nothing's how it is! Ugh, you're being _really_ gross," Ryouma hisses, though his squirm to get away is half-hearted at best. "I was just surprised because I haven't heard that in awhile, _obviously_ , god, you're the worst, _Atobe-sempai._ " 

 

“Oh?” Atobe’s tone is teasing, his eyes intent, and his hands strong as he presses Ryouma down to the featherbed. He leans in, lips just ghosting over Ryouma’s ear, and asks, “So you wouldn’t want to call me _Buchou_ right now, hmm? Be honest, Echizen.”

 

Sputtering is about as much as Ryouma can manage, especially when his mind hiccups and veers in a few directions that he'd really rather _not_ admit. "You're not playing fair," he frantically tries to argue, wriggling and scowling over the fact that Atobe _is_ really strong. "I told you, it's not like that, I don't--it's not like I want to…it's just a _tennis_ thing."

 

A strong hand comes up to hold Ryouma’s chin still, the other still pinning his wrists. “It’s fine,” Atobe says, half-amused, half-intrigued. “He has beautiful tennis, doesn’t he? Elegant, confident, capable, deft. There’s no shame in being turned on by that.”

 

"…Isn't there, though?" Ryouma weakly manages, sagging down into the bed. "It's weird, and he's _your_ boyfriend, and I don't…like…want him to _do_ me or anything, that'd be really…" 

 

“Now is really not the time to feel as though you’re intruding on our relationship.” The amusement is definitely winning out, and Atobe brings a knee up to rest between Ryouma’s thighs, not demanding anything yet, just a reminder, a pressure. “Though I wonder...is this what you’ve thought about, with him? Or is it...”

 

He rolls them over, getting Ryouma on top, tugging him up and whispering, “Are you ready to become the pillar of support, Echizen?”

 

Considering how quickly all of his blood rushes south, that's a pretty obvious indicator. Ryouma swallows hard, his head briefly thunking down against Atobe's chest. "Hate you," he mumbles, biting at the curve of one shoulder. "Atobe-sempai, that's not playing fair and it's not like you're gonna let me do it, anyway." 

 

There’s a momentary qualm, a rather _strong_ one, but Atobe pushes that to the side. There’s an element of challenge in the brat’s voice--there always is, which is what makes him so damnably _delightful_ \--and Atobe can’t help but respond in kind. “Do you think you’re up to the challenge?” he asks, raising one eyebrow. This is kind of...exciting, not that he’d tell anyone that.

 

Ryouma's head snaps up, and his eyes narrow, openly skeptical. "…I'd be good at it," he says immediately, though he's obviously still on the fence about whether or not this is a joke or not. "I know how to do it so it feels really good. I mean, _I_ know what feels really good, so yeah." He wriggles up, nuzzling against the side of Atobe's neck. "You _could_ let me."

 

Atobe leans his head back, his heart thudding faster than it has in quite a while, and he tries to convince himself that it’s only excitement, not nerves. Well, as long as it’s a little of both, who cares? How bad can it possibly be? Slowly, he extends his legs, hands coming up to slide down Ryouma’s back, one dropping down to give his cock a quick, light tug. “Convince me,” he breathes, although he doesn’t need too much convincing, embarrassingly enough.

 

Definitely not a joke, then. Ryouma's eyes light up, and his mouth is immediately on the side of Atobe's neck, sucking and nipping but kissing, mostly, because he doesn't want to get yelled at for leaving marks, not right _now._ He's going to roll with this, and it's going to be _fun._ "Buchou," he breathes against Atobe's ear, feeling his face flush hot for a moment, but whatever, who _cares_ , he can just be embarrassed and get over it, "I'm gonna make sure you really like this." 

 

That...should _not_ be getting Atobe as hot as it does. Whatever. Atobe’s hips roll up, pressing against Ryouma’s hip, and he nods, legs parting more eagerly than he’d intended. “Echizen...” He pitches his voice without meaning to--too long of being a copycat, too long _knowing_ exactly how Tezuka is in bed, too long knowing somewhere deep down that both of the idiots he adores have wanted something like this--and murmurs, back to Japanese now, “Sure you’re ready?”

 

Atobe is _good_ at that. It makes Ryouma whimper, and he nearly bites down, barely stops himself, grabs at Atobe's hips instead and drags his fingers along his thighs too-eager and shaky instead. "Y-yeah. I've been thinking about it for awhile." It's actually kind of painful to sit back, because then his cock isn't rubbing against Atobe's skin as much, and that's just unfair. "Ever since you beat me," he admits. "But I didn't know if I'd be good enough." 

 

“You didn’t understand.” It’s strange, how easily the words come to him, and Atobe’s breath hitches, feeling Ryouma’s eyes on him like he never quite has before. He reaches around for the lube, and hands it over, eyes intense even as his voice doesn’t belong to him. “I was waiting for you, Echizen.” Strange, that he should feel somewhat like a _voyeur_ in this, Atobe muses, but he can’t deny that he’s enjoying himself immensely. “Go on--but don’t let your guard down.”

 

There's no helping how he wobbles at that. _I'm literally never going to be able to hear those words again_ , Ryouma thinks, a mix horrified with himself and even more turned on. Whatever. He licks at his lips, grabs at the lube, and his hands might be shaking a little--less nerves, more eagerness. "Buchou…maybe it's weird, but I've always thought about the faces you'd make when I'd be fingering you." Which, of course, why he's even faster about slicking his fingers up and sliding them down, his breath hitching when a pair of them press against that hole. "It's okay, right?" 

 

 _More than okay_ , Atobe wants to say, would say if he could find his own voice, but that’s not what he should be saying right now. Weird, how it makes his cock jump and swell so much at the idea of Ryouma fingering Kunimitsu like this, breathless and excited and determined to take control, and the faces...oh, Ryouma’s right, his captain would make the most delicious faces imaginable. Atobe knows, has seen them for himself. Perhaps it’s not so strange that thinking of the two of them together should make him so hard, loathe as he is to share. “Don’t ask again,” he breathes, thankful that an air of command comes so easily to him. “Show me your resolve.” _And do it before I change my fucking mind, brat._

 

Good, Better, Best. That's the direction this has gone in, and Ryouma's pretty good at _showing his resolve_. 

 

It's also incredibly easy to imagine Tezuka saying that--Tezuka, his captain, the one person that Ryouma still is wary about trying to play a _real_ match with…but also the man that he'd pretty sure would _like_ something like this. Maybe. If it's done right.

 

"Fine." 

 

There's resistance when he presses one finger in, and it's tight and hot enough to take his breath away. Ryouma bites down a whimper, shoves his face into the side of Atobe's neck, and breathes raggedly when his finger wriggles into the second knuckle, pressing deep. Thinking about how that's going to feel around his cock--well, that's not fair at all. "Buchou--I always _knew_ you'd like this."

 

It’s for the best that he can’t see Ryouma’s face right now, with how Atobe knows his own might, _must_ look. His cheeks flush at the new sensation, at the startling vulnerability of it, and his breath catches hard. If it were just them--without the other man who they both know is really here--Atobe would probably be doing this himself, be pinning Ryouma to the bed with strong arms and might laugh as he sank down, the way he’s occasionally dabbled in imagining. 

 

But Ryouma deserves the authentic experience, after all, and who else in the world knows just what that is?

 

So Atobe lets his head roll back, and twitches his hips up. The words come easily off his tongue, and after as many times as he’s heard them, it’s no wonder. “It’s no good,” he murmurs, twitching and squeezing, “unless it’s your cock in me.”

 

Ryouma's breath hitches around a groan. "Y-yeah, I know. I'm the same way," he hurriedly admits, and a part of his mind tells him _you're getting way too into this, this is still Atobe, chill out_ but--

 

_But--_

 

The second finger that he gets inside is more hurried, a bit clumsier, but it's worth it for the way that he can feel Atobe twitch and shiver around just that much. If he doesn't do this right, it's going to suck. That's what he firmly reminds himself, though his cock is so hard that his eyes cross, and he can't really think any more. 

 

 _Good enough._ Enough lube on his cock and no one's going to care, Ryouma's pretty sure, and that's the plan of action when he pulls his hand away, and his fingers are trembling when he grabs at his own cock and wriggles up to a better position between Atobe's legs. "I'm not gonna use a condom, Buchou--I…I really want you to feel this for awhile after." 

 

 _Idiot. I’m going to be feeling it from now on._ There’s a little thrill that goes through Atobe at the realization that this is real, that this last unexplored experience is about to be another memory--and then, because he is himself, he wraps a leg around Ryouma’s narrow hips to pull him closer, plunging in head-on. “Echizen,” he breathes, and slides his hands up around Ryouma’s waist to pull him close. “Whatever you want. Take it.”

 

Tezuka never gives up control. Tezuka wants control _wrested_ from him in a battle--a battle that he plans to lose, _wants_ to lose, but it must be a battle nonetheless, or it’s worth nothing. This is the last surrender, and Atobe tips his head back, closing his eyes.

 

The last little thread of insecurity snaps, and Ryouma's ready for it. 

 

That first, tight, slick push is enough to take his breath away and make his thoughts fizzle to nothing. It takes genuine _effort_ not to just come immediately, because it's one thing to just think about it with a hand on his own dick--it's something _else_ to be inside and to be thinking about Tezuka-buchou the whole damned time. 

 

His hands drag up Atobe's hips, squeezing, kneading, scraping along his ribs, and Ryouma's hips grind forward until skin slaps against skin and he can _think_ about breathing again when his cock is all the way inside. "That's what I want," he pants out, and his teeth might be a little too sharp against Atobe's neck, but he can't think to care right then. "Just like that, Buchou." 

 

 _Jesus, how the hell does Kunimitsu do this?_ is Atobe’s first frantic thought when Ryouma pushes in, followed by _that feels a hell of a lot bigger up my ass than it does in my hand._

 

A strangled whine forces its way from his throat, and Atobe clenches his teeth, eyes rolling back into his head when Ryouma’s mouth grazes over his neck. That--that’s _good_ , making his skin tingle, his body sing, and the way his legs fall open isn’t planned or orchestrated. “Echizen--” 

 

The name on his lips is broken, groaned out around an effervescent pleasure bubbling up from his abdomen, sending sparks through his brain with every wild, inexperienced thrust. God, but it’s for the best that it’s Ryouma his first time like this. If he were as large as the Captain he’s fantasizing about, Atobe has no doubt that he’d be biting back snarls and protests instead of moans right about now. “Just--just that way--there--”

 

There's no helping the urge to bite and suck, not when Atobe is making _good_ noises, and it's all the better to keep back the sounds of his own voice that's too high and breathy and broken right now. "T-there?" he pants out, and his fingers dig into Atobe's skin when Ryouma thrusts forward again. By the clench and shiver of muscles around his cock that follow, he _must_ be doing something right, and that's enough to make him even more bold. "You feel--really, really good, Buchou-- _perfect_ \--"

 

Atobe’s voice comes out choked around Ryouma’s name, and that’s probably for the best. It would be nice to pretend he doesn’t love the way Ryouma bites and sucks at his neck, but it’s a lie, and that boldness is something he’s _always_ found damnably charming.

 

It’s also somewhat charming to Atobe the way Ryouma is _so_ into this, gasping _Buchou_ over and over, choked and eager, thrusting like Atobe’s something to be cherished, but still _taken_. That, Atobe knows full well, is the only way to treat Tezuka Kunimitsu. Thinking of that helps distract him from the unfortunate fact that this feels fucking _good_ , filling and stretching him in a way he’d thought he’d hate, slick friction working inside of him and forcing embarrassing noises out of his mouth, and ah, no _wonder_ Tezuka always sounds like a sated, broken thing when they’re finished.

 

“Do it--the way you want to,” Atobe grunts out, shivering and rolling his hips, trying to get _more_ , feeling that desperation building in his abdomen. “How you’ve always _wanted_ to fuck me, _Echizen_ \--”

 

Ryouma's glad that he's gotten stronger, because it's a lot easier to grab at Atobe's thighs next, his fingers scoring over smooth, soft flesh when he _pulls_ him into the desperate shove of his hips. That movement alone is enough to make sparks fly in his mind, and Ryouma's teeth scrape over the jut of one collarbone when his fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises, and his cock presses in deep enough that he can't _see_ straight. 

 

"Like this," he gasps out, and the slap of their flesh together is _obscene_ whenever he can hear it over the thudding of his own pulse. "Just like this, Buchou--I-- _god_."

 

It's definitely too much when he comes. His thrusts inside are frantic, and he aches from head to toe, shivering and shaking when he finally spills, and Ryouma can't do anything but _cling_ to Atobe when every single pulse of his cock feels like he's being drained. Too much, really good, and mind-numbing--that's all that this is, and Ryouma prides himself on not passing out when he just _thinks_ about coming inside _Tezuka-buchou_ like this.

 

Atobe rides the wave, driven higher with every thrust, breath coming in harsh pants as everything starts to explode behind his eyes--only to feel Ryouma twitch and slam in a last time, thrusts stilling when he’s _so close_ , damn him.

 

He reaches a hand down, and thankfully it only takes a few clumsy, shaking pulls of his own cock before he’s gasping out Ryouma’s name, clenching hard on the cock still inside him and feeling it even more slick, that knowledge sizzling through his mind and body.

 

And because Ryouma’s twitching and trembling, Atobe rolls them over onto their sides, holding the boy close to his chest, kissing his hair. “Perfect,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down Ryouma’s back, tense and damp with sweat. “Perfect, you were magnificent.”

 

Twitching and overstimulated, Ryouma _immediately_ buries himself against Atobe's chest, shoving his face into the side of his neck and trying to remember how to breathe properly. Easier said than done, but Atobe feels really good and solid and easy to cling to right now. 

 

"You…" Breathing. Right. He can do this. "You didn't…think that was super weird?" It was. He knows it was. They still _did it_.

 

“I think,” Atobe says, amusement making his lips twitch, “that was incredibly fucking hot, and I’ll never tell a soul. How’s that?” His hands rub soothingly over Ryouma’s back, and he shifts slightly to let Ryouma sort of slide out, leaving him feeling quite slippery and affronted, but sated nonetheless.

 

"…Okay." That sounds like a good plan of action. Ryouma peers up through his bangs, eyes narrowed. "You _especially_ can't tell Tezuka-buchou."

 

“Not unless you decide you want me to.” Atobe ruffles Ryouma’s hair. “Don’t look at me like that, brat. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

 

"Good. I think he'd hate me. It's not like I _really_ want to do it or anything. You're an okay substitute."

 

Atobe pinches Ryouma’s ass, not as hard as he could but enough to be felt. “He wouldn’t hate you. Bloody hell, Ryouma, haven’t you ever heard of a fantasy? It _is_ fine to do and say things during sex that you wouldn’t want to do and say during real life, you know.”

 

"It still makes thinks awkward!" Ryouma complains, swatting away Atobe's hand half-heartedly. "Sex is weird. Fun, but weird."

 

“Agreed. Which is why he doesn’t need to know.” Atobe laughs, and squeezes Ryouma around the waist, pulling him closer. “Be reasonable. If you felt like calling me _Daddy_ , I wouldn’t call up your father and tell him you wanted to climb aboard. I actually have both discretion and common sense.”

 

Ryouma freezes, the look his face nothing but startled, and then decidedly and openly horrified with a large dash of embarrassment. "T-that's--Atobe-sempai, you're gross," he hisses. "Like I'd ever want to call you something like that."

 

“Said as if I’ve never been called that during sex,” Atobe sighs, stretching out to his toes. “I told you, it’s just a fantasy. There’s no need to be _boring_.”

 

"I'm gonna hit you. You're seriously not weirded out by any of it?" There's a bit of skeptical hope there. "Atobe-sempai, maybe _you're_ the weird one." 

 

One blond eyebrow arches up. “Why should I be weirded out? Being prudish is an unfortunate state. I’d rather fully enjoy my life, in extreme sexual pleasure. Why should I care what other people think of what I do in my private time, what words we use, what toys we use? No one out there is having sex as good as I am. Why should I care?”

 

"…Mnn." Ryouma rolls, flopping solidly onto his back. "Fair enough, I guess. I dunno, some of it just always sounded weird to me. I didn't want you, of all people, to think I was weird, either. It's one thing if I'm explaining it to Kintarou, but he's _easy_." 

 

Atobe blinks slowly, trying (and thankfully, failing) to imagine Kintarou roleplaying. “You can actually explain things like that to him? And he _understands_?”

 

Ryouma rolls his eyes. "He's not as dumb as he wants everyone to think. I mean, I have to explain some sex stuff to him, but he gets it really fast. He's good at physical stuff."

 

Atobe blinks, then nods slowly. “I was hoping some of that...wild child routine was just an act,” he admits. “I just couldn’t see you satisfied with someone who had a sack of hammers for a brain.”

 

"Once you get him alone behind a closed door, he's pretty chill. Otherwise, I'd kill him, and he knows it. He's just really crazy because he knows it gets him out of a lot of stuff, and most people just let him have his way because they don't want to deal with it." Ryouma pokes at Atobe's arm. "He doesn't like you because he thinks you're gonna steal me." 

 

“Hmm.” Atobe catches Ryouma’s hand, and brings it to his mouth, biting gently before he releases it. “Not permanently. Short-term thefts only. You’re too much work to spoil full-time.”

 

Ryouma slowly drags his hand down to poke at one of the hickeys he left with a great amount of glee. "Yeah, good. You wouldn't like Osaka, anyway, and I do, so that's already a conflict. It's just hot."

 

Atobe hisses, grabbing a handful of Ryouma’s ass in punishment (or for his own amusement). “I’m also reasonably taken, _brat_. And still a little mystified by the fact that you can train that beast to play _sex games_.”

 

"He's good at it," Ryouma repeats without batting an eye. "As good as _you_ , and I'm the one who trained him, so what does that say about how awesome I am?" 

 

“That you learned from the best.”

 

"Or maybe I'm just innately amazing."

 

“Or maybe you still have lots more to work on.”

 

"Gross, Atobe-sempai." 

 


End file.
